


(un)predictable

by elinadsy



Series: don't, don't, don't let's start [1]
Category: Sly Cooper (Video Games)
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Romance, sly 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 91,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8874709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elinadsy/pseuds/elinadsy
Summary: “They recovered them.” A statement rather than a question.“They did.” An apology rather than an answer.Sly leans back into the chair, closing his eyes. He fights to keep panic from breaking loose.“Well,” He says, opening his eyes and fixing a smile onto his face. “What’s the plan?” A retelling of Sly 2 in which relationships and characters are studied, and some missing scenes filled in.





	1. prelude

**Author's Note:**

> (This is just a fanwork; I am making no profit, just fun)
> 
> my favourite game of all time- I've been plodding through writing this on and off. As an adult, it's hard not to want to explore these characters and plots with an adult eye, which is how this came about. Please enjoy!

The light skids off metal, red cooling and bubbling thickly, burning and hissing at his ankles as steel buckles and the bird screams, and he drowns and drowns in the blood oozing across the floor while he scrabbles at the door, demonic wings shadowing him, wood splintering beneath his nail, those terrible, wicked claws close on his shoulder-

“Sly. You’re going to want to take a look at this.”

Sly rubs at his eyes, feeling his heart thudding in his chest. Another nightmare in a long line of them, and he struggles to keep his eyes focused on the bespectacled turtle in front of him.

“What is it, Bentley?”

Bentley’s snout is a grim, hard line, and Sly feels the pit of his stomach sink further.

Sly settles in front of Bentley’s laptop, a mug of tea trembling in his hands as he scans the screen. It’s in Arabic and takes a few seconds for him to understand what he’s seeing. For a second, he thinks that maybe he’s misread. But then, when he sees the picture advertising the exhibit, a chill runs up his spine and he looks at Bentley.

“They recovered them.” A statement rather than a question.

“They did.” An apology rather than an answer.

Sly leans back into the chair, closing his eyes. He fights to keep panic from breaking loose.

“Well,” He says, opening his eyes and fixing a smile onto his face. “What’s the plan?”

 -

“ _Breaker Alpha Foxtrot, this is the Wizard. Do you read me Sitting Duck_?”

He grins despite himself as he dusts shards of glass from his thick protective jacket. “This is Peking Duck,” he replies mischievously, “I hear you, _Blizzard_.”

“ _No, Sly, I’m the_ Wizard _. And you’re_ Sitting _Duck_.”

“I read you loud and clear, _Lizard._ ”

“ _No, I’m- forget, you’re not taking this seriously_.”

Sly forces his fur not to raise at this statement, and lets that easy grin come back to his face, even if his tone isn’t as calm as he’d like.

   “Yeah, I’m not. Look Bentley, I know this is your first time out on the field, but you _gotta_ loosen up. If we’re going to get to those Clockwerk parts, _I need you on your toes._ So in plain talk- _what’s your status._ ”

“ _Well, I’ve established myself in the basement, and I’m pretty sure I can rewire the service elevator if you can power it up from that security station_ ,” he says: a glowing arrow appears in the binocucom’s HUD, and Sly swings his eyes to the switch. His tail twitches.

“Hang tough pal,” he says. “It might take some time, but I’ll figure out a way to get up there.”

He severs the link, and stows the com back in the satchel tied to his thigh. Surveying the area, he’s pleased as he spies the decorative drum, leather stretched taut but forgiving. He may not be a master of physics like Bentley, but he knows how to make use of his surroundings: the drum is as good as a trampoline. With a run up, he leaps onto the drum and launches himself up onto a skeleton suspended from the ceiling. It sways only slightly- he’s glad to see that his balance is perfect as he runs lightly along it and leaps onto the first floor balcony. With a flip of the switch, Bentley begins muttering in the earpiece wound into his fur and the elevator begins cranking loudly. After a few false starts, the doors open and Bentley himself scuttles out, crossbow in hand.

“Okay okay, let me at that security computer,” Bentley says, breathless with excitement. While his shorter friend punches keys in rapidly, Sly spins the cane absently in his hand, watching it shine.

One by one, the security disappears and with a final satisfied nod of his head, Bentley declares the route clear.

“Thanks pal,” Sly says, peering out into the corridor. He can see the conic lights of torches off in the distance, and his keen ears pick up heavy feet, but nowhere near him. “For your first time out, you did pretty well.”

“This operation is far from complete,” Bentley replies, adjusting his glasses. “Now that the lasers and spotlights are offline, Murray should be moving into position for your rendezvous. I’ll stay here and provide computer support while you go on ahead.”

Sly listens to this patiently (he has heard this plan a hundred times over) because he knows it reassures Bentley, even if it does nothing to reassure himself. They nod their goodbyes, and he creeps on ahead, admiring the age-old treasures on the walls. While he makes his way through the halls, Bentley rumbles through the intercom system in a poorly disguised voice, informing the guards of the temporary switch off of security. It’s so offputting that his spirits lighten just a little bit.

It’s good to be back in the field.

He comes out onto a balcony over the streets of Cairo and gazes at the building where he knows the parts to be. He swallows before leaping onto the thick wire connecting the balcony to adjacent buildings. The wind buffets him, but his steps are sure as he dances over the tops of cars, between buildings, and back out onto the street, and leaps onto the first rendezvous point. There’s no sign of Murray.

Sly frowns, his hackles starting to rise again and Bentley speaks up in his ear when Sly relays Murray’s absence.

“ _Murray must have gotten lost on the way,”_ Bentley mutters. “ _Try pressing on without him_.”

Sly purses his mouth –how is he meant to lift up a solid iron gate?- but passes through into the little alcove. He pauses, examining the bars of the gate- he could _maybe_ slip through…

And suddenly the roof explodes and Murray lands in a triumphant smack of muscle against carpeted floor. Sly dusts plaster from his shoulders, mouth twitching.

“Greetings, citizen,” he booms, flexing his arms. “I hope you weren’t harmed by my _meteoropic_ entrance.”

Sly tries not to grin, but fails. “No, Murray. I kept at a safe distance.”

The hippo’s confidence has soared astoundingly since Clockwerk, and he nods, pleased. “Good, good. The Thunder Flop knows neither friend, nor foe- only _destruction._ ”

Sly’s lips twitch again. “Yeah, could you maybe channel some of that ‘raw energy’ into this security gate?”

Murray casts the gate a derisive glance, and he absently flexes his biceps. “Of course,” he says, “It is nothing before _The Murray._ ”

And it isn’t. Sly watches as Murray squats, slides his fingers between the gate and ground, and grunts. His shoulders strain visibly against his t-shirt and with a final bellow he slides the gate above his shoulders. Sly slips underneath with ease, and Murray nods for him to go on ahead. His face is mottled red, but he hasn’t even broken a sweat. The hippo joins him on the balcony, and they both see that the doorway across the street on the opposite balcony is closed. Murray stares at it intently.

“Another barrier stands before you,” Murray says. “But fear not- I shall bend it like the _truth._ ”

He cracks his knuckles and picks up a nearby statue- thick, made of metal- and takes aim at the opposite door, before hurling it across the street. The statue slams against the bars, leaving a dented gap easily big enough for Sly to get through. Sly can’t help but be impressed, even if the solution was less than subtle.

“Solid work, Murray!” he exclaims. “You’re really in the zone.”

But Murray is gazing at the cable Sly will cross on. “My hulking frame is too much for that puny rope,” he declares distastefully. “You go ahead and unlock the doors from the inside. I’ll be waiting in the hallway to carry out the Clockwerk parts.”

They bid each other farewell, and Sly bounds nimbly across the cable, trying not to breathe in the exhaust fumes wafting up from the traffic below. Landing safely on the opposite balcony, he enters, feeling a lot more certain, expecting there to be crates filled with the body of his old foe.

But the room is empty, save for two sarcophagi, and he pauses, confused, uncertain, terrified, relaying the information to Bentley. The turtles pauses, assumedly hacking into the security camera for that room, and then sucks a breath in between his teeth.

“ _I don’t get it, Sly_!” Bentley exclaims, “ _The Clockwerk parts were meant to be here! This is all wrong, we need to pull the plug on this operation right now-_ “

And then the doors of the sarcophagi burst open and all hell breaks lose.

- 

On Bentley’s screen, the two figures who emerge are grey scale, but he recognizes that gun and tail anywhere. He panics, and begins to rapidly inform Murray of the situation while keeping an eye on the security feed as he packs up his equipment.

Sly seems largely unfazed, but then, he’s probably busy admiring Carmelita’s form. “ _Inspector Fox_ ,” he says in their native French with a wide smile, leaning on his cane as he takes in the sight before him. “ _As beautiful and unpredictable as ever_.”

“ _Whereas you crooks are_ so _predictable_ ,” she responds calmly. “ _You always return to the scene of the crime_.”

Bentley infers all he needs to know from this simple statement- _that someone else has stolen the parts._

“ _Crime?”_ Sly asks, shrugging casually. “ _I haven’t stolen anything_ \- yet.”

Carmelita is, Bentley thinks, understandably unimpressed and unconvinced.

“ _Then who broke in last night and made off with all the Clockwerk parts?”_ she challenges him, cocking her pistol. “ _You’ve got the motive_.”

Sly is outraged at this information. “Someone already stole the parts!?”

“ _Don’t play dumb with me_ ,” Carmelita hisses. Bentley finishes packing up his system and lingers a moment to see if he can gain anything else of importance.

And oh, does he. The other woman -a tiger- raps a coiled whip against her thigh.

“ _It might not have been him, Carmelita_ ,” she says in English, her accent a mix between Cockney and posh. “ _The method of entry and guard casualties all point to this being a Klaww Gang job._ ”

The Klaww Gang?

Sly is similarly confused, but before he can dig for information, Carmelita’s shoulders visibly tense as she lowers the pistol to glare at her partner.

“ _Constable Neyla_ ,” she says in annoyed English, “ _I allowed you to sit in on this stakeout as a favor to the Contessa. I really don’t need any help_.”

He files away the tiger’s name, even as she snidely protests this:

“ _Oh, I think you might. Look at the facts_ -“

“Facts _?_ ” Carmelita exclaims furiously in French before returning to English, turning all her attention onto Neyla. “ _Sly Cooper is right here! I caught him redhanded_!”

“ _I’m just saying that there are other criminals in the world other than_ -“

“ _Sly Cooper_!” Carmelita roars, as the raccoon sneakily ducks back out of the room. “ _After him_!”

But Bentley doesn’t catch this last command, because he is already running down the hallway to meet Sly in his flight.

 -

Sly sprints down the hall, dodging pulses from Carmelita’s pistol with swift dives and leaps.

‘You can’t run forever!” she yells. He begs to differ, of course, as he casts a wicked grin over his shoulder at her. Really, she is lovely when she’s mad. The passion of her never ceases to send hot chills down his spine.

Somewhere ahead of him a door slams open, and Murray joins the escape, wheezing as Sly runs quickly past him.

“Oh geez,” he huffs, “Wait up, Sly!”

“Sorry Murray,” he calls back, “it’s time to go!”

They run past exhibit portraits of Sly’s oldest foes, and then Bentley rushes out of a side hallway, yelling wildly, “ _This wasn’t part of the plan_!”

“Yeah, well, this is where things get fun,” he yells back, “It’s getting a little hot- you guys go warm up the van while I keep Carmelita busy!”

The other two nod their assent, and throw themselves through a side door.

“You’re _all_ going to jail!” She spits at them.

“Pick me up at the rendezvous,” he murmurs into his microphone, just before he leaps out a window and lands neatly on a cable. He doesn’t waste time, ignoring Carmelita’s orders to freeze, and sprints across the rooftops. He sees police cars swerving below him, chasing the van.

It’s the most excitement –and normality- he’s had in a long time. Carmelita bounds just behind him, her shock pistol missing him by mere inches. What a romantic night out.

“We’re heading towards your position,” Murray says in his ear, more out of breath than usual. “Get in the van quickly so we can get out of here!”

He leaps to the ground just as the van swings around the corner. The back door flies open and he launches himself inside: the van roars off, and as he and Bentley struggle to close the back door, he sees Carmelita standing on top of a street sign, tail whipping in agitation.

“I’ll find you, Cooper!” she screams across the ever growing distance between them, and he waves goodbye.

“Honestly,” Bentley says once they’ve hauled the door shut, collapsing into the back seats, “You and that _woman_.”

Once they’ve all caught their breath and they’re safely out of town, Bentley logs onto his laptop and begins debriefing them while he researches the Klaww Gang and the mysterious Constable Neyla.

“Neyla’s new to Interpol,” he informs them firstly, blinking owlishly as he trawls through police data files. “She’s British born, but of Indian descent. Twenty seven years old, a rising star in the force. She studied forensics and did a course in engineering and history before applying to the academy. Very intelligent, recommended by the Contessa. She’s solved many cases, two of which have baffled Carmelita, which explains their… animosity.”

Sly snorts, tail flicking.

“In any case,” Bentley says sternly, “She seems to be working on the Klaww Gang cases under the Contessa’s orders.”

“The Murray wants to know about this Klaww Gang,” Murray says immediately, glancing at them in the rearview mirror.

“Yeah,” Sly says, drumming his claws against the edge of the backseat. He gazes out the window as street lights flick by. “I’ve never heard of them before.”

“That’s no surprise,” Bentley says, bringing up the entirety of the files on them. “They’re only infamous as of now. All working across the world, from what the police can tell, but they haven’t been pinned down for any actual crimes yet.

“Whoever’s the mastermind of the group is sure keeping it airtight.”

He pauses, scanning the files, and gives an unbelieving half-laugh.

Sly casts him a questioning look, and Bentley shakes his head.

“I already know where to start,” Bentley says. “One of them is based just on the edge of the central business district in Paris. Right, in fact, a few streets away in the suburb of one of our hideouts.”

 -

After they return home to France, the days pass slowly as Sly sinks into the criminal underworld, meeting with contacts and scouring for information on Dimitri, the first of several marks to come.

It doesn’t take much, though he does have to call in various favors to get the goods on Dimitri they need for the heist. The majority of his contacts agree that Dimitri is incredibly arrogant, as well as annoying. They’re all very happy to give up the information after a little bit of bribery.

The majority of the information on Dimitri’s past and current endeavors comes from an eagle, Anya. He knows her well, from years spent as mutual contacts- it was Anya who first told them of Clockwerk’s gang, in hushed undertones one night in a bar.

She looks good, her eyes piercingly intelligent. As Sly sidles into a dingy café booth, she greets him in barely accented French.

Both of them are in disguise- her dressed as a businesswoman, he as an author. No-one looks twice at them as he dumps his manuscript on the table.

After a short but heartfelt conversation, she tells him what she knows about the iguana.

“He’s an underworld celebrity of sorts,” she says, reading through the bundle of paper before her. “He used to be a very alternative artist, but he never made it big. After a few art shows, he gave up, I think. Very angry. But he was talented technically- he made millions of euro from forging so called ‘lost’ masterpieces.”

“Forgery?” Sly’s lip curls. Forgery is a boring practice. He understands of course the usefulness, the practicality- the forgery of identification, and so on- but to forge art to sell for money? How… lackluster.

“Mmm,” Anya replies, sipping her coffee. She makes a face down at it briefly. “Now he moves in both high-class art circles and shady, back alley deals. He may be bizarre- not mad, though, do not underestimate him so- but he knows very much how to grease the wheels.”

“The police think he’s located on the west side of Paris,” he says, sipping from his tea, grimacing at the watery taste.

“He is,” she nods. “He runs a nightclub by the riverfront. Very successful- it’s listed in various magazines and blogs as one of the top ten clubs in Paris. People from far and wide come to visit it. Whatever he’s doing with the Clockwerk parts, he’s doing it in that club.”

They talk a little longer, exchanging stories and useful information, before they part ways.

 -

A few days later, Sly makes contact with another old friend- or rather, acquaintance. ‘Friend’ is a strong word for the armadillo who sits before him, terse and clearly unhappy to be there.

Rudy is American, and once made the fatal mistake of trying to steal a priceless piece of jewelry at the same time as the Cooper Gang. His French is barely passable, so they speak in English. The words are slightly harsh against Sly’s tongue, but soon he settles into their familiar cadence.

“He got the tail feathers,” Rudy says, arms tightly crossed. “I dunno how y’all expect to steal them back, though.”

“Ve vill manage,” Sly assures him. “Do you know vat he is doing?” As Rudy pauses, he curses his pronunciation, which could very well ruin any disguise.

“He had some weird machinery shipped in a while ago,” Rudy says slowly. “But I don’t know what it was for. I do know that he’s the main source of income for the Gang’s plans.”

Sly nods. “Thank you. We may be in touch.”

Rudy gives a long-suffering sigh as Sly leaves the bar.

 -

“I’ve been doing research of my own on the area, and I think we should be able to get the tail feathers in one night.”

“One night?” Sly says skeptically.

“We could push it out to a few days, but in such a small location, I’d rather we get in and out before he finds our safehouse as soon as possible. The only way in and out is by ferry, and with the van, that will pose a problem- we’ll need to be quick.”

“Well, take all the time you need to plan everything,” Sly says, putting his feet up on the table. Murray dozes in a room adjacent to them as they toss ideas back and forth, stopping only to eat or relieve themselves.

 -

Bentley is the one responsible for the acquisition of the ferry: with a little blackmail and a lot of bribery, they find themselves in possession of a ferry for as long as they need it. They load the equipment into the van, and then the van onto the boat, covering it in tarpaulin. While Murray steers them to the West side, Bentley goes through all their equipment and Sly takes a nap in the autumn sun, resting as much as he can before they begin the heist, gaining a few precious hours of much-needed sleep.

They’ve planned it from dusk through to very early morning on a Wednesday night: the club will be closed, and the streets mostly empty. Sly’s thoughts drift to Carmelita. Bentley keeps tabs on the vixen, and she’ll most likely come running to the club the moment they finish the heist. He grins, shifting slightly so the sun touches his paws. She’s become even more aggressive than usual- more determined, fixated. He wonders when one escape will be once too many, and she’ll come after the Cooper Gang herself, warrants be damned.

The ferry slows to a stop, and Murray goes about anchoring it in position, letting the ramp onto the street and backing the van out. No one is around, just as they planned and hoped: the suburb is predominantly filled with students, who are likely still asleep this hour in the morning. As they drive off to the safehouse a few streets away, they see only stray pets.

Arrival at the safehouse is, as always, a hushed and quick affair. The garage door is quickly closed once the van is in, the blinds lowered, all entrances and exits locked. Bentley begins sweeping the safehouse for bugs while Murray and Sly unpack.

They do this in companionable silence. Sly enjoys Murray’s company greatly in moments like these. Bentley finds inane chatter difficult, but nor can he allow silence to reign when he is not researching or reading. Murray, despite his loud personality, is surprisingly content with easy quiet. He’s come a long way from the barely grown boy he was only a year and a half ago.

“I’ll get to making us some lunch,” Murray says happily once they unpacking is done, and heads to the tiny kitchen to make them all sandwiches.

“No bugs,” Bentley declares from the bedroom, emerging with one of his many devices. “All good to go.”

Sly rubs his paws together, the old thrill of a big operation running through his joints:

“Let’s get started, then.”


	2. The Black Chateau

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> paris, paris, paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this is a fanwork; i am making no money, i own nothing, and i'm having a good time)  
> here we go ! lets get the party bus rolling

Sly climbs up onto the roof, admiring the dusky streets. It’s been a while since he was in Paris during the warm autumn evenings.

“I tell you Bentley,” he says in a low murmur, crouching on the edge of the roof, “It’s gonna be a real pleasure robbing this nightclub.”

Bentley stirs to life through the earpiece as he adjusts his belt and satchel, gripping his cane tightly.

“ _ I share your enthusiasm, but before we hit the inside, we’ll need to do a little reconnaissance work _ .”

“What do you have in mind?”

“ _ I’ve installed this special antenna on the safehouse to help with our first job- hacking into Dimitri’s satellite array _ .”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Sly asks dubiously. He knows the overall plan, but Bentley never mentioned any hacking in relation to him. 

 Bentley explains, and Sly is relieved. All he has to do is climb and insert a USB for Bentley? No problem.

 He quickly scales the water tower and inserts the device. A few seconds later, the satellite dish swivels around to face the hideout. 

 “ _ The first one’s in position _ ,” Bentley affirms. “ _ I’ve uploaded waypoints in your feedback imager marking the other dishes _ .”

 “Thanks pal,” Sly says, and then he’s off, leaping and creeping across the rooftops. 

 Beneath him, men with torches leak out onto the streets, mingling with the few students. Guards, clearly- a few emerge on the rooftops, but foolishly haven’t brought flashlights. Sly avoids them with ease.

The streets are clean, but there’s a slight menace to them. Sly doesn’t know how to describe it, other than that the entire suburb seems to be under scrutiny.

 He plugs in the USB to the final satellite, and Bentley gives a huff of satisfaction.

 “ _ I’m downloading from Dimitri’s mainframe as we speak _ .”

 “All in a night’s work,” Sly says dismissively, eager to get to the meat of the night. “So, where do we go from here?”

 “ _ Your next job is to break into the nightclub and take some reconnaissance photos of the tail feathers _ .” He pauses, and Sly hears Murray rumble in the background. “ _ To get inside, you’ll have to sneak through an old wine cellar beneath town _ .”

 “Okay,” Sly says. “I’ll head out for the cellar.”

-

Murray gears up, barely able to contain the bounce in his step. Every time Murray goes out for a job, his energy levels are ridiculous. Tonight is no different. As he pulls his boots on, Bentley comes in.

 “I’ve got the guard’s schedules,” he explains, “And it should be easy enough to avoid them if you stick to the side streets and avoid the roof tops.”

 “The Murray fears no man,” Murray says. 

 “You should do,” Bentley says evenly. “They have tasers at the very least. Just meet Sly in the cellar and try not to make too much noise.”

 “The Murray can guarantee no such thing,” Murray begins, but at Bentley’s exasperated huff, he quiets a little bit. “I’ll do my best,” he says.

 “Good. If you head on over now, you’ll meet Sly there.”

 Murray finishes lacing up his boots and springs out the door, winding his way through the streets to Sly.

 He’s not small or stealthy like Sly, but his friends have taught him the value of slight steps, breathing through his nose. He will never walk on wires or hack computers but he can land a solid K.O in one punch, and that’s what he’s needed here for tonight.

 Arriving at the cellar, he quietly lets himself in. He’s there moments before Sly.

 “Good to see you little buddy,” he says in a low voice. “I guess the way through the wine cellar is guarded by those rats. Bentley thought you might like some help clearing ‘em out.”

 The rat guards are small but there are quite a few of them, sitting and drinking.  

The alcohol will only serve to make them wilder in a fight- a double-edged sword. Murray cracks his knuckles in anticipation.

 Sly seems to share this feeling. “Sounds like fun,” he says, spinning his cane. “You and me, back to back…”

 “Totally!” Murray exclaims a little too loudly. “Outnumbered… fighting impossible odds.. it’s perfect!”

“Alright pal, let’s get to it.”

 Sly sneaks off into the shadows while Murray approaches the group head on.

 “Fear the Murray!” He roars, and the rats, startled, fumble for batons strapped to their waists. He takes down three before the rest get a grip and swarm him. Unluckily for them, Sly approaches from behind, dragging them and tripping them with the curve of his cane, then neatly rapping them on the head with it.

 Murray, meanwhile, relishes in bobbing and weaving moments before a hit can land before punching them solidly enough to fracture bones. The fight is over very quickly, and the cellar is littered with unconscious guards. They drag them into an alcove, gagging and tying them and moving barrels to block them from view. Though no one should make any unexpected visits, they wouldn’t put it past their luck.

 They both take a minute to catch their breath before Murray squats before the thick lever for the closed gate to the basement of the club.

 “Let me lower those bars for ya,” he grunts, and with a mighty heave, pushes the lever upwards. The bars lower, creating a gap which Sly can easily scale up and through. “Looks like you’re on your own from here,” Murray says. He may be strong, but he isn’t lithe enough to get through the security system. 

 “I’m used to it,” Sly says, clambering up the gate. Before he swings himself over onto the other side, he pauses and turns to look down at Murray. “Thanks for the help,” he adds, landing neatly on the other side.

 “Anytime partner,” Murray says happily, feeling his chest swell with pride. He watches Sly disappear up the hall into the darkness.

-

Bentley guides Sly through the security system with ease, hacking into the security cameras and looping the footage. Anyone watching them will be entirely fooled.

 As Sly creeps and crawls, Bentley scans the information coming in from the satellite array, occasionally stopping to offer some advice to Sly.

 He frowns at a particular piece of information- to do with Dimitri’s finance. A large stream of it is going out to an anonymous account that from this location, he can’t trace without better equipment. It must have to do with the Klaww Gang’s plans, but what would such a large amount of money be for? He studies it a little longer, unable to gain any information. Sly clears his throat, and Bentley turns his attention back to his friend, bringing up the feed of Sly’s binocucom. 

 A large room full of customized machinery appears on one of his monitors. The noise is loud, even from this distance.

 “The heart of Dimitri’s operation,” he says in satisfaction, pressing record on the feed. He sees Dimitri lurking around the machinery, muttering to himself.

 “Take some photos of Dimitri and the machinery,” he says to Sly, who follows suit. The photos appear on another monitor as Sly takes them.

 The first is of a large piece of machinery that even in the dim light, is evidentally a money printer. He examines it closely; the printing plates are oddly shaped…

 “ _ Rudy was right _ ,” Sly mutters, his voice tinny in the ventilation shaft.

 “Genius,” Bentley says admiringly. “Dimitri is using the tail feathers as printing plates. Given their rare alloy, they’ll never wear out! Unlimited forged money.”

 Sly is wholly unimpressed, it seems, as he fails to reply and instead photographs the next piece of machinery.

 “That generator seems to be powering the security systems down here,” Bentley says, tapping his chin. It’s big and a little old, by the looks of it. Sly then photographs the lizard.

 The photo is awful. Dimitri’s saggy face covers the screen; his eyes are jaundiced and bloodshot, and his teeth yellowed from tobacco. Overall, though, he looks very sharp.

 “The professional lounge-lizard himself,” Bentley mutters. “That should do it, Sly. Head back to the safe house and we’ll cook up a plan of attack.”

-

After a good half hour of briefing, Bentley informs them they need more intelligence before he can properly plan the heist. Which is how Sly comes to be tucked into a corner with a perfectly forged piece of art in his backpack, his legs cramping and his breathing silent as two janitors pass by in the club’s adjoining restaurant.

 “… on weird looking powder, looked a little like curry mix to me.”

 “Last time it was shaved bark. Curry powder wouldn’t surprise me.”

The first speaker retorts something Sly doesn’t catch as they move away, and he clambers up a bar and into the venting system, landing neatly in Dimitri’s office. A little dish of red powder sits on his desk, and the walls are littered with garish paintings. Sly swaps the real painting on Dimitri’s desk for the bugged forgery, and decides to hold onto the original. An early Picasso, by the look of it. It should sell for millions at least. 

 He takes a few seconds to stretch out his limbs and survey the club from Dimitri’s office windows. A huge disco ball hangs from the ceiling, and he can see the fish in the harbor views. It would be quite classy, if it weren’t so… kitsch.

He reemerges onto the streets, intending to head to the location of the next job when Bentley interrupts him.

 “ _ I’ve just intercepted an email from Dimitri. He’s ordered his guards to ring that boats bell when the coast is clear _ .” Sly follows the marking on his com to a little boat big enough for a small cabin. A solemn looking bell hangs off the figurehead.

 “Coast is clear for what?” he asks, crouching on the edge of the roof.  

 “ _ Of that, I’m uncertain. Ring the bell and follow him- maybe we’ll find out what he’s hiding. _ ”

 Checking there are no guards near by, Sly clambers down to street level and reaches out with his cane, whacking it sharply. The resulting peal is clear and loud, and Sly barely has time to leap onto the roof of the cabin and flatten himself on top of it before the door swings open, and Dimitri’s lanky limbs unfold themselves from within the little cabin.

 Sly studies him carefully. His eyes are hyper alert- no doubt on some drug- and his gait is wonky, unbalanced. The iguana mutters something senseless, looking for the guard who rung the bell. Unperturbed by the lack of one, he swaggers out onto the streets, crushing a cigarette beneath his scaled toes.

 Sly waits a moment until the iguana’s back is turned, and then leaps to the rooftops, careful to keep the lizard in eye range. While he follows Dimitri’s winding, seemingly aimless route, he takes the time to examine the Klaww Gang’s accountant of sorts.

 Large golden rings lush with jewels adorn Dimitri’s long claws, and the garish jacket he wears is no doubt highly expensive. Though the man is inebriated, Sly doesn’t doubt for a second that between those heavy rings and Dimitri’s thick tail that the artist could deal some serious damage in a fight.

 Dimitri’s route is almost  _ too  _ aimless. When the lizard stops and looks over his shoulder, Sly flinches behind a chimney out of habit, but doesn’t think that Dimitri knows he’s being followed- just that he’s checking to make sure he isn’t.

 After a while, the lizard comes out on the front of the river, and heads down some steps to an innocuous door barely above water-level. Sly gets as close as he can and brings up his binocucom, linking Bentley to its feed. He zooms in on a keypad next to the door as Dimitri keys in the password and disappears inside.

 “ _ Good job tailing him, Sly _ ,” Bentley says as the raccoon clambers to a safe spot on the roofs. “ _ He had no idea he was being followed. Looks like that door leads to the nightclub’s aquapub. This might be useful for the heist _ !”

 “Glad to be of help, buddy,” Sly says.

 “ _ I’ll be sending Murray out for this one _ ,” Bentley says after a few minutes. “ _ You snoop around the streets, and I’ll let you know when you’re up next _ .”

 Sly grins. “Snooping? Well, if you insist.”

-

Murray reels backwards, the side of his head pounding furiously as he struggles to get back up: Bentley is gabbling loudly and anxiously as the world spins and he roars in the face of his opponents, wildly swinging his fists. Blood pours out of a split on his brow, leaving him half blind.

 God, but he loves it.

 “ _ Murray! Murray!” _

 He grunts as he takes a hit on the chin and knocks one of the rats out, tossing the unconscious body in the water pump. 

 “Kinda busy here, Bentley,” he manages, as another rat leaps on his back while one tries to take him from the front. The piggybacker gets slammed against a wall and tossed into the pump. The front rat follows suit. Trying to catch his breath, he wipes the blood from his eyes, blinking furiously. The door swings open once more.

 “ _ That should be the last of them Murray- hold on a little longer _ !”

 Murray does more than hold on- emboldened and pumping with adrenaline, he roars mightily and tackles the lot of them into the ground.

 Heaving, he tosses them into the pump, and the water system groans loudly, bucking in on itself before splitting in two: water swells across the floor, and the drenched rats litter the surrounding area.

 While Murray checks the rats are breathing and binds their hands and gags them, Bentley is very satisfied.

 “ _ With the aqua pump out of commission, they’ll be forced to route water out of the old pipe tower _ ,” he explains happily. “ _ Those fools! They’re playing right into our hands! _ ”

 Murray washes his face with the trickle of water from the crack pump, gasping with relief as his vision clears. “Glad to be of help, buddy,” he coughs, spitting out blood and taking a deep breath. Bentley seems to remember all of a sudden that Murray has just been in a large brawl, and panics slightly.

 “ _ Are you alright _ ?”

 “Yeah,” Murray grins. “One of them split my eyebrow, but it seems alright now.”

 “ _ Get back here and I’ll patch you up _ ,” Bentley promises, then severs the link.

Murray creeps out of the pump room and through the streets, sweaty and broad and triumphant.

-

Sly returns to the safehouse and is unsurprised to see Bentley taping a cut across Murray’s brow together.

 “The other guys looked way worse,” Murray says when Sly eyes the wound, grinning largely.

 “I’m sure,” Sly says, grinning in reply. He takes a seat near the projector, watching Bentley fuss over his far larger companion. 

 “It’s not very deep, Murray,” Bentley says, stepping down off the chair. “It shouldn’t scar too badly.”

 Murray looks disappointed, but doesn’t complain.

 “The streets are looking pretty calm out there,” Sly says, drumming his fingers on the table. 

 “As it should be,” Bentley says distractedly, coming to the table and moving some paper around, setting up for the next part of the plan. He switches on the projector and takes out his pointer. Sly and Murray straighten up in their seats as the little turtle begins to talk.

 “I’ve constructed a plan to get at the tail feathers,” he begins, “but we’ll need to pull off a few more jobs to set things up for the heist.

 “Firstly, Sly will have to pick a few pockets in the theatre so that we’ll have access to the spotlight control centre.” In response to Sly’s questioning look, he explains: “Once we have access to that, we’ll be able to turn off all the security surrounding the printing press. Murray, we’ll need your muscle to take out all the exterior alarm horns. We don’t want anything to alert the guards while we pull off the big job. And finally, we’ll need to get into the discotech to drop this mirror ball.”

 As Bentley raps his pointer against the projection of a large mirrorball suspended from the ceiling of the discotech, Sly exchanges a very confused  glance with Murray.

 “Uh,” Murray starts, but Bentley is already across it.

 “Trust me,” he says confidently, “It’s all part of the plan.”

-

Sly shifts uncomfortably, tightly curled up beneath a table. Five of the six keys sit in his satchel, and five of six guards are unconscious and tied up in various hidden locations throughout the theatre. He’s no good in taking out thugs in a head on fight, but Sly is exceptional in stealth knockouts.

 He watches the guard come past and continue walking up the dressing room stairs. Easing himself out, he creeps up behind the guard and deftly picks his pocket before hooking the cane around the guard’s neck and slamming his precisely onto the ground. He ties up the guard and drags him into the dressing room closet. Easily done.

 Returning to the first floor of the theatre, he carefully unlocks the control panel controlling the fans and flips off switches at Bentley’s command. Glancing at the fans, they slow down instantly: he takes a solid run up and catches the thick cables, shimmying up them and then leaping to the next one. He drops onto the top of the chandelier, and pulls out the splice clip Bentley gave him, inserting it at the turtle’s direction.

 “ _ I’m overriding the spotlight security guns now _ ,” Bentley announces, and the well hidden turret slides out. The noise is not as loud as Sly would have thought, as the power boxes crack and spark furiously. 

“ _ That should do it _ ,” Bentley says in satisfaction. “ _ No more security in the printing press room. I’ll send Murray out now to take care of the alarm system through out the streets- head on back to the safehouse and get some rest before the heist _ .”

 “No problem buddy,” Sly says. “See you soon.”

 He slips out the door of the theatre onto the balcony, and begins to head back over to the safehouse. As he lands on a rooftop, suddenly a piercing squeal rends the air, and all the guards in the area turn their heads. Sly can hear walkie-talkies issuing commands, and half the guards he can see head towards the noise. He hopes Murray can take down the alarms without being seen, otherwise they’ll lose the element of surprise.

 Turning back to continue moving, he hears someone on the roof above him shift and jump down- readying himself for fight or flight, he is astonished when Constable Neyla straightens up from an elegant landing, tapping her coiled up whip against her thigh. She leans forward predatorily. 

 “Hold it, Cooper,” she purrs lazily.

 “Constable Neyla,” he smiles, shifting his weight slightly in preparation to flee. “Another policewoman hot on my tail.”

 “Please,” she says, straightening into an almost insultingly relaxed pose. “I led you here.”

 “So that Klaww Gang slip  _ was _ a clue.” Sly spins his cane. “Why are you helping me out?”

 Neyla regards him with large, indolent green eyes. “I’m not as black and white as Carmelita,” she says lightly, but when she says Carmelita’s name, Sly can help but hear a slight tone of derision that has him feeling defensive for his favorite vixen. “I know what a menace those Clockwerk parts are, and I don’t want the likes of the Klaww Gang putting them to use.”

 “So, what,” Sly says, grinning slightly. “It takes a thief to catch a thief?”

 Neyla’s eyes slide from his and trace his body in an appraising gaze that has Sly feeling hotter than he’d like. “Something like that,” she smiles at him after a few seconds. Her expression abruptly turns serious, and she gestures at him with her whip. “But if I’m going to trust you in this case, I need to know that you can keep up… literally.”

 Sly pauses. “Literally?”

 “Don’t fall behind,” she says, and before he can say another word, she turns and begins to run. Sly stands there for a second before giving chase.

 Her headscarf streams behind her in a red blaze, her tail whipping through the air. She’s  _ fast _ \- he hasn’t had to run so fast for a while, and soon his legs burn as she leads him across the rooftops. 

 Running behind her, he can’t help but appreciate her physique- he adores Carmelita’s fiery curves, but there’s something about Neyla’s cool, willowy waist and legs that has him short of breath. Literally.

 As they run, the alarms Murray is destroying intermittently turn on and then abruptly off, startling him. The night air is cool and relieving against his brow as sweat beads in his fur. When Neyla casts a glance back at him, she looks fantastically unaffected by the bounding run, her thin lips twisting in a little smirk before she leaps over a chimney.

 It’s foreign to be chasing, instead of being chased. He briefly wonders how Carmelita would look running in front of him. The idea sends shivers down his spine, and he almost trips on a broken piece of slate. 

 Just as he’s starting to gasp for breath, she leaps over a large iron gate and slows into a jog, leading him through a small courtyard to a pair of unassuming doors. He can hear music from inside, thick and pumping.

 He does his best to breathe slowly, refusing to show how his throat is burning, his legs trembling. 

 Neyla lazily twirls her whip in hand. “Well done, Sly,” she grins lazily. “We should work well together.”

 He straightens up, leaning on the butt of his cane. “Glad you approve,” he manages in a relatively breezy voice. 

 She gives him a smoldering smile before gesturing to the doors behind her. “Legally, I can’t enter Dimitri’s nightclub without a warrant,” she says disinterestedly, examining her claws before glancing up at him wickedly. “But I happen to have obtained a key to his back door… which a person like yourself could use however he pleases.”

 He laughs delightedly, taking a few steps forward so he can smell her perfume, the individual hairs of her fur. “Oh,” he says in a voice that takes him by surprise, “We are abso _ lutely _ going to work well together.”

She’s a few centimeters shorter than him, and she looks up at him slyly before walking past. Her hand brushes his, and a keyring slips into his palm. Before he can turn to thank her, she’s off again, leaping over the iron gate and disappearing into the night.

  “ _ Does Carmelita have anything to worry about _ ?” Bentley says dryly through his earpiece, and Sly licks his lips, stretches his calf muscles.

 “She’s quite a woman,” Sly grunts eventually. “Very different to Carmelita.” 

 “ _ She’s almost the exact opposite _ ,” Bentley remarks. “ _ But we should be careful. She might be working under the Contessa’s orders _ .”

 Sly purses his lips but doesn’t protest. “I’ll be careful,” he says shortly.

 Bentley pauses before returning to the task at hand. “ _ The disco will require my demolition skills. Head on back to the safehouse and I can grab the key from you _ .”

-

Sly helps Bentley buckle up his Kevlar vest, clever fingers quick and nimble. Bentley feels a slight flare of envy at the sight, looking at his blunt, ugly hands. They shake slightly, and the sight makes him swallow.

 “Your second night out on the field,” Sly remarks lightly, smiling at his friend. Bentley nods stiffly, refilling his supply of darts and bombs. “Still nervous?”

 “Of course not,” Bentley manages, pulling at the neck of his shirt. He slips his gloves on and polishes his glasses once again. “I have a plan to stick to. Nothing to it.”

 “Nothing to it,” Sly agrees easily. Bentley sits Sly in front of his many monitors, and explains which monitor shows what. “If worst comes to worst, Murray will come and rescue you,” he says. “We’ve got your back, buddy.”

 Bentley nods, and leaves the safehouse before he can change his mind.

 As he creeps through the streets, it terrifies him how every shadow seems to be a guard, every sound a furious opponent. He’s so small and weedy.

 When he comes to the doors of the nightclub, he stands out there a minute, gathering his nerves before inserting Neyla’s key and stepping in.

 The immediate impression is of sweat and darkness. Bentley wrinkles his nostrils distastefully, electing to breathe through his mouth.

 “ _ Okay Bentley _ ,” Sly says through the earpiece in a calm tone, “ _ to get past the lasers, you’ll need to blow them up _ .”

 “No problem,” Bentley mutters, as if he doesn’t already know, selecting his quiet explosives and pressing them against the panels he comes to. With a muffled  _ whump _ each wall of laser security neatly shuts down.

 When he rounds the corner and almost steps into the beam of a guard’s flashlight, he nearly yells in fright before he catches himself. As he takes aim with his crossbow, his hands shake.

 “ _ Deep breaths, buddy _ ,” Sly says. Bentley sucks in a wobbly breath and pulls the trigger; the sleeping dart sails true and hits the hulking boar’s neck. His nerves ease just a little.

“ _ Good job _ ,” Sly says as Bentley climbs over the guard after tying his hands, coming out into the nightclub.

 It’s utterly atrocious and kitschy. Though Bentley sometimes wishes he partied and went clubbing, the sight of a sleazy joint like this is enough to remind him why he doesn’t.

 “ _ How you holding up _ ?”

 Bentley snaps back to attention. “Fine, fine, I’m just fine,” he says, a touch irritably. “I just need to bomb all the pillars supporting that disco ball and I can get out of here.”

 “ _ What’s with taking out the disco ball?” _

 But Bentley is focused on the several guards doing their rounds, and is starting to shake again. “Its impact will shake the nightclub’s front peacock sign loose from its moorings- look, I can’t talk now, I’ve got to keep moving, keep safe!”

 Severing the connection, Bentley sneaks forward, wide-eyed, suddenly conscious of how his plans depend entirely on security feeds, blueprints and snatches of conversation. Has he calculated everything right? What if the peacock sign falls off entirely? What if Interpol comes? 

 He forces himself to focus on the task of incapacitating the guards. They go down one by one, and once they’re all tied up, he begins to set up his bombs at the bottom of each pillar.

 The process is precise, careful, and with the guards out of the way, he loses himself in the mathematical part of it. Sly remains silent for the most part, and Bentley can hear Murray chattering in the background.

 Once the bombs are ready to go, he retreats to the entrance he came in from and hits the switch.

 The impact is spectacular- for a second, his heart stops and he instinctively assumes it’s an earthquake, but the shudders die away. When it’s obvious that the place isn’t coming down out of the blue, he takes a deep breath, leaning against the wall as his heart stops racing.

“Okay, fellas,” Bentley says, “the dominoes are all in place. Time to pull off the heist.”

 They sit around the table, plans and photos spread out between them all as they eat a light meal of fruit and nuts. Bentley rubs his hands together in anticipation as he lays the plan out before them.

 “Firstly, Murray will help me to break into the old water tower. From there, I should be able to shut down the plaza fountain. Dimitri is sure to send someone out to get the repair truck. 

 “Sly, you’ll pickpocket the keys off the guard once he shows up, then hand them off to me and Murray in the plaza. We’ll go steal the truck while you climb up to the top of the plaza’s peacock sign. When you’re in position, Murray will throw the truck’s winch line up to you, and we can use it to pull down the sign. 

 “If my calculations are correct, the impact should create an entrance to the printing press room. Sly, you’ll jump in, grab the tail feathers, and we’ll all get the heck out of there!”

 “Sounds good,” Murray says, and Sly nods his assent. 

 “Nice plan, Bentley,” the raccoon says. “Simple.”

 “Not really,” Bentley says, “The timing will have to be perfect, and if I can’t shut down the fountain, this entire night will have been for nothing.”

 “I trust you, buddy,” Sly says easily, standing up and stretching. He claps Bentley on the shell. “Your plan will work just fine.”

 “Yeah Bentley,” Murray says cheerfully, cracking his knuckles. “It’ll all be okie doke.” The hippo puts his massive hand in the middle of them. With an encouraging look, the other two soon follow.

 “Team Cooper,” Murray bellows.

 “Team Cooper!”

 “You sure about this buddy?”

“I’m sure, Murray. A fully grown turtle’s shell can survive a heck of a lot more than being tossed.”

 Murray is apprehensive at the idea of it. He knows how strong he is, knows that if he misjudges his strength that he could easily crack Bentley open. He sweats in terror at the very idea.

 “Murray, come on!”

 “Okay,” he says with a swallow, and gently lobs Bentley up onto the little ledge. Bentley plants his bomb and jumps back into Murray’s waiting arms.

 The door neatly cracks open with a muffled thud, and Bentley withdraws into his shell as Murray tosses him once more.

-

He can feel the air whipping through his shell, the impact of landing in the water tower. Once his shell skids to a stop, he pokes his limbs out and examines his surroundings.

 The pipe system is an absolute mess. He clucks at the sight of it as he makes his way through it, having to climb over the pipes to get to the main valve.

 “Honestly,” he mutters, turning the wheel. The water hisses and rushes to a different valve. 

 “ _ You alright up there, Bentley _ ?” 

 “I’m fine, Murray. The water system is a bit messy, that’s all.”

 After a few minutes of turning various wheels and huffing at the exertion of climbing over so many pipes half his height, Bentley is relieved to turn the final wheel.

 “Sly,” he says into the microphone clipped to his throat, “The water to the fountain should be disabled.”

- 

“It’s off alright,” Sly says from his comfortable perch on the rooftops. “They’re already sending out the repair guy to fix it up.”

  A particularly stocky hog closes the entrance to the club behind him, and ambles down the street. 

 “I’ll grab his keys now- see you guys back here in ten.”

 Bentley says something but Sly isn’t paying attention, easing down the street.

 He can see the keychain dangling from the repairman’s pocket, glinting in and out of the shadows. His feet are silent, and just as the repairman turns a corner, Sly reaches in with his cane and hooks the keychain, delicately pulling it out of the overall’s pocket. The hog doesn’t even falter, disappearing around the corner.

 Returning to the plaza, he arrives there just as Bentley and Murray do. Tossing the keys to Murray, he grins encouragingly.

 “It’s all you,” he says, and as they hurry off to the repair truck, he stares up at the giant peacock, determining the best way to climb it.

 He scales the overhanging sails, hauling himself onto the fabric and stepping onto the concrete ledge that the peacock is extended from.

 He can hear Bentley and Murray chatting in low whispers over the communication system as he tests the integrity of the thick golden wire that acts as decoration for the sign. When it holds, he hooks his arms and legs around it and shimmies up, effortlessly pulling himself hand over hand. Crouching with precise precariousness on the tip of the peacock’s quaff, he can see a pair of headlights coming through the streets. 

 “I’m in position,” he says. The peacock sways beneath him, and though his balance is perfect, he’s eager to get off the sign.

 “ _ Perfect, _ ” Murray replies, “ _ We’re just coming up now _ .  _ Get ready to grab the tow handle. _ ”

 The truck swings up, and Murray comes out of the truck, unwinding the tow handle as far as it goes, taking aim at Sly. 

 “ _ Ok, here it comes!” _

__ Murray’s aim is true: Sly hooks it with his cane as it flies towards him, winding the thick metal cable and clamping it to the hook of the peacock’s head.

 “The hook’s on- pull away!”

 He leaps onto the cable, sliding down it and leaping off to the side of the truck as Murray climbs back in and reverses, the wheels spinning spectacularly. Smoke rises up from the burning rubber. Through the windows, Sly can see how Murray’s face is in a grimace, his large foot pressed firmly down on the pedal.

 “ _ Come on, come on _ ,” Bentley mutters, leaning forward in the seat.

 Finally, just as Sly is about to wonder how much longer than tires can hold out, bolts groan and pop and the sign comes crashing down onto the fountain.

 The impact is incredible, and cracks appear from the impact that reaches behind them into the street.

 “Jiminy cricket,” Bentley says, climbing out and admiring his demolition work. “I wasn’t expecting such a robust success.”

 “Heck  _ yeah _ ,” Murray bellows. “Did you see that! Look at the cracks!”

 “Calm down guys,” Sly laughs, approaching the giant hole and peering down. The counterfeiting room is on emergency lighting, soft and red. He can see the tail feathers from here. “Let me head on down there and grab the feathers.”

 “Hurry up Sly,” Bentley advises, “All the guards in the islet will have heard that.”

 Sly salutes him and leaps down.

-

While Sly pilfers the tail feathers, Bentley and Murray prepare the ferry for immediate departure, quickly carrying all the important equipment back on board in preprepared boxes. The engine is running, ready to speed off, when Sly coughs over their earpieces.

 “I think we have a problem,” he murmurs. Bentley can make out someone else in the background, thickly accented and gibbering in slang Bentley is totally unfamiliar with- Dimitri, of course. The plan has suddenly gone off the rails.

 “Can you take him out quickly? The guard’s radio frequency is going wild.”

_ “I’ll try,” _ Sly promises, as Bentley tries not to go into a full on panic attack.

 “Sly will be fine,” Murray says confidently, standing by the anchor for the ferry. 

 “He better be,” Bentley says doubtfully, taking a seat next to the radio tuned into the guards’ frequency. They’re all converging on the fallen sign, spitting in confusion and heavily accented slang. Luckily, they’re all dumb enough that they don’t think to look for the culprits in the ferry off the boulevard- what criminals would stick around in a ferry?

 The Cooper Gang, that’s who.

 “Hey, Bentley,” Murray says, interrupting him and pointing to his police-tuned radio. “I think the police are on the way.”

 “Oh no,” Bentley chokes, plugging his headphones into the radio and turning it up. 

 “ _ The mark’s nightclub’s sign has fallen, guard activity suspicious, requesting permission to investigate the disturbance…” _

__ “ _ Oh no,”  _ Bentley whispers, horrorstruck. 

 “Don’t worry, Bentley, we’re ready to go. Sly will be back any minute.”

 “Sly,” Bentley says into his microphone, “Interpol is on the way!”

-

_ “Get out of there!” _

Easier said than done, Sly thinks, ducking behind a barrel of waist as Dimitri levels his bizarre energy ring weapon that is  _ far _ too advanced for a dingy Parisian nightclub and blows up the barrel in front of him, releasing a noxious green smoke that Sly leaps through, tackling the lizard to the ground.

 Sly was right about those rings- despite his speed, blood trickles from a heavy bruise on his jaw, and he’s sure a rib is broken. The two of them struggle for power, and Sly thickly smacks Dimitri in the head with his cane. The lizard screeches, throwing Sly off, keening furiously. The raccoon barely has time to get behind a pillar before Dimitri shoots another bolt of energy at him.

 He can hear police sirens in the far distance. He has to end this soon and get out.

 “Hey, Dimitri,” he calls out, and sees the shape of the lizard through all the smoke. “I thought you were good with this kinetic aesthetic stuff? You look kinda clumsy to me. You sure you’re the Klaww Gang’s forger?”

 It’s a clumsy jab, but Dimitri is suffering from concussion and fumes, and lets loose a roar, charging through the fog. 

 “You  _ cracker box!”  _ The lizard screeches. As far as it goes, Sly has heard worse. He trips him with his cane and then slams his head into the pavement. Dimitri falls into unconsciousness.

 He needs to breathe fresh air, but he unscrews the tail feathers from their place on the money machine and goes to climb back out through the top, the tail feathers tied to his back. For their size, they’re extraordinarily light, a fact for which he is very grateful. The sirens, however, are suddenly all too close. Flashlights shine through the smoke from the street level.

 Sly thinks fast, sliding Dimitri’s ring off his claw for Bentley to examine, before ducking upwards through the vent he had taken reconnaissance photos from earlier that day.

 As he shimmies away, he can hear voices, loud and frankly, aggravated. One of them is distinctly female, and he grins to himself as it fades from his hearing when he comes out in the dressing room.

 “Bring the ferry around to the wine cellar entrance,” he says into his microphone. “I’ll be there in ten.”

 All the rooms are empty, the guards having fled the crime scene and the surrounding area as Sly sprints through. When he bursts out of the door, and the ferry is waiting, he leaps on without a thought for his own safety. Even as he lands, the ferry begins chugging off, going faster than a ferry strictly should.

 “You always change the plan,” Bentley complains half-heartedly as he comes out from the cabin, looking more relieved than anything that Sly made it out.

 “Not my fault this time,” Sly smiles, taking Dimitri’s ring out of his pocket and passing it to his friend. ‘Dimitri has an ace up his sleeve- or rather, on his finger.”

 Bentley examines it closely. “Bizarre. I’ve never seen this sort of technology outside laboratories. I’ll have to examine once we’re back at the base.”

 “Good idea,” Sly says, sitting heavily on one of the ferry’s benches. His head and sides are throbbing. “In the meantime, I think you might have to patch me up- Dimitri got me pretty good with those rings of his. I think he broke a rib.”

 “We need to get you to a hospital,” Bentley mutters, pulling up Sly’s shirt and probing his side. Sly flinches in sharp pain. “You’re lucky this time,” Bentley says after a few minutes. “Just a deep muscle bruise- I’ll get you an ice pack and some wipes so we can sterilize your jaw.”

 Sly nods, leaning back on the bench, watching the stars go by. He wonders if Neyla and Carmelita have figured out Dimitri’s counterfeiting operation. 

  Really, he thinks. Carmelita owes him for this one. 

 


	3. interlude: monaco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the boys take a breather, and Sly runs into someone unexpected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this is just a fan work! no money being earned, just fun)

Sure enough, later that week, the Nightclub’s bust is all over the news, starring a beaten up Dimitri and a furious Carmelita in the process of cuffing him.

 Sly reads the paper lazily, laying in the sun of their hotel off the beach of Monaco. They’ve done the entire thing legitimately, aside from pulling in some favors. They want to just relax- and in Sly’s case, heal- before they go after their next target.

 As Sly lazily reads the article, Murray is off swimming and Bentley sits beside him in the shade, reading  _ Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde _ , engrossed in one of his favorite science fiction classics.

_ “Who, however, broke into the underground counterfeiting lab?”, _ the article reads.  _ “When questioned for information on this mystery, Inspector Carmelita Fox refused to comment. Her associate, Constable Neyla, an upcoming star in the Interpol ladder, was similarly stoic. No money was stolen, simply a part from the money printer itself. For now, dear readers, these mystery criminals remain anonymous, and at large.” _

__ Sly skims the rest of the paper, but it holds little interest to him- a few small articles on the oil business booming in Canada, some new development in artificial limbs. 

 “The Inspector was chastised yesterday,” Bentley says, marking his page and putting the book on the table. 

 “Really?”

 “Mm. One of my bugs caught their conversation. He’s on the end of his tether with her letting us continue to escape. He threatened to demote her.”

 The thought makes Sly uncomfortable. “Really, now? That’d be a shame.”

 “Mmm,” Bentley says, sipping at his tea. “Constable Neyla is certain to be promoted in her place.”

  Sly says nothing, staring out at the ocean. He opens the newspaper back up, looking at the article once more. In a second photo, where policemen and policewomen surround the crime scene, Neyla is clearly visible in a professional uniform, barking orders. Carmelita is nowhere to be seen.

 When Murray returns from his swim, he and Bentley go out to dinner while Sly hits the Monte-Carlo casino, dressed in his finest tuxedo.

 The gambling doesn’t interest him so much as the challenge of it does. He prefers poker, where he can test his sleight of hand and smooth, innocent face- or alternatively, the appropriate expression he needs to win. Besides, lately he’s been enjoying having some time to himself.

 As he collects yet another round of winnings, a slim paw lays itself on his forearm. He turns and sees a barely recognizable Neyla, her hair complexly plaited and knotted on the back of her head. The jewel on her necklace shines brightly in the flickering lights of the casino, and she sweetly smiles up at him.

 Fancy seeing you here!” she says innocently.

 He knows for a fact there are no officers here searching for him- they checked before coming, and Bentley would have known- but he’s intensely curious as to how she knew he was here, let alone recognized him without a cap shadowing his face, his mask hiding the shape of his brow and cheeks, the pattern of his fur.

 “Neyla,” he says warmly, taking her hand and kissing it. “A pleasure, as always.”

 She tucks her arm around the crook of his elbow, and he leaves his winnings there, allowing her to guide him to the balcony. They make their way through the upper class foxes, the struggling middle-class hedgehogs, and the shrews and moles who have made it into the big leagues. Luckily, they fit in amongst the foreigners, the rare platypuses and turtles. Sly is certain they look like a couple, old friends at the least. All the same, his fingers linger near one of the three emergency buttons Bentley divvied between the three of them many years ago.

 Once they’re out on the balcony, he leans against the railings and takes her in: a sheer, black number of a dress that’s just short enough to make him embarrassed to look, but deeply hypnotized enough to stare for hours. In this light, her pink fur is rosy, and her green eyes glitter mischeviously.

 “Is this a happy accident, or do I have another officer hot on my tail?” he asks her, mouth twitching.

 She shrugs noncommittally. “A raccoon, a hippo and a turtle all seen on separate flights to Monaco from Paris? Frankly, I’m surprised Interpol hasn’t figured it out yet.”

 Sly surveys her carefully. “An eye in the sky?”

 “Something like that,” she says, and tilts her head enough so that he can see the slim arc of her neck. His fingers twitch. “I keep a close eye on criminals like you.”

 He raises a brow. “I prefer the term ‘master thief’,” he corrects her playfully.

 She laughs. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Carmelita laugh. Neyla’s laugh sounds cool and wicked. He likes it. 

  His fingers fall from their position near the emergency button.

  “Anyone who manages to steal old Ironside’s heart deserves the term.”

 “Please,” he replies with a wink, “The only heart stolen here tonight is mine.”

 “Really?” she murmurs, eyes bright with mocking innocence. “And who managed to steal from the master thief?”

 They’re very close. He can see the strands of gold amongst the green in her eyes. The snappy retort falls from his tongue. They stay like that, their bodies mere millimeters apart, before Bentley’s voice unwittingly flashes through his mind. 

_ She might be working under the Contessa’s orders. _

He clears his throat, leans back. Neyla’s smile widens into a lazy smirk that only cats seem to be able to do.

 “I hear you’re up for a promotion,” he says in a rough voice, catching the attention of a waiter with a tray of champagne. He takes one from the elegantly dressed dog, thankful for the cool sensation against his throat.

 Neyla examines her claws. “Yes,” she drawls, her accent surprisingly prominent in such a short word, “If Carmelita doesn’t clean up her act, I’ll be taking her place on the stage.”

 Sly doesn’t know what to say for that, and instead settles for a sip of champagne.

 “So who’s the next target of the infamous Cooper Gang?” She asks, shifting her balance. Her hip juts out temptingly. He’s very aware of how she’s playing him like a violin, and it occurs to him that she would make a valuable and downright fearsome addition to the team.

 “We’re not sure yet,” he says airily. “We have a few days left here before we return to work.”

 “I’ll be heading off to India in a few weeks,” she says innocently, checking her lipstick in a pocket mirror she pulls from a black silk clutch. She glances at him nonchalantly from it as she slowly and deliberately reapplies a shade of dark red lipstick. The sight of it pressing against her mouth makes him hot and frankly uncomfortable. 

 “Really?” he says, taking another mouthful of champagne as if he hadn’t even been paying attention. “Work or pleasure?”

 “A bit of both, actually,” she says. “Work _and_ pleasure. Maybe I’ll sample some of these spices that have been sweeping the culinary nation recently.”

 The dish of red powder that sat on Dimitri’s desk flits through Sly’s head.

 “India,” he muses. “Full of priceless artefacts, I assume.”

 “We think so alike,” Neyla smiles. “Birds of a  _ particular _ feather, I’d say.”

 He smiles back.

 “Well, it’s been a pleasure, Neyla,” he says, kissing her hand, “But I’m afraid I’ll have to turn in for the night.”

 “A pleasure indeed,” she murmurs. “I imagine we’ll be running into each other soon.”

 “I can only hope,” he tells her, before disappearing back into the crowd.


	4. A Starry Eyed Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (this is a fanwork; i am making no money, i own nothing, and i'm having a good time)
> 
> india investigations, or; the boys sweat a lot

**** The heat in India is down right ridiculous, in Murray’s opinion. He’s a constant puddle of sweat. The others, though, are just as uncomfortable in the humidity, the thickness of the air. One day, Sly caves into the heat and goes to a shoddy back alley barber to have his fur shaved down to soft bristles barely a centimeter long. 

  They all agree that he’s much less recognizable with his fur short and darker and devoid of noticeable patterns, even if Murray thinks that Sly looks a lot skinnier than he remembers. 

  The smells are intense and pungent, even to Murray’s less sensitive snout. That being said, of course, the food is absolutely delicious, and he makes up for the sweating with spicy curries, samosas and sugary pastries. He’s glad for the arrival of the van, though, because with it comes the miracle of air-conditioned travel. 

 They book into their hotel in Calcutta, and rarely venture out except for meals as Bentley gathers the last pieces of information he needs on their new target- a Bengal tiger named Rajan.

 From what Murray understands, Rajan has a huge foot in the illegal spice trade market in India, a market which frankly, confuses him.

 “The spices we’re talking about have hallucinogenic qualities,” Bentley explains to him when he asks why the spices are illegal. “They’re essentially a naturally occurring LSD- highly dangerous in large doses. Of course, in tiny doses, they make food taste fantastic and the consumer slightly dazed.”

 “That explains Dimitri,” Sly says, telling them both about the dish of powder on Dimitri’s desk. 

 “If only you had told me that earlier,” Bentley says in exasperation. “That would have made my job a lot easier!”

 “I just assumed it was some sort of drug,” Sly says guiltily. “I didn’t think-“

 “Clearly,” Bentley grumbles, and Murray frowns a little at the uncharacteristic annoyance Bentley is displaying. Sly looks similarly surprised, and they share a glance. Murray decides to dismiss it- it’s hot, and they’re all tired from the jet lag. 

 Murray’s glad a few weeks later when Bentley’s finished collecting his information and it’s time to get on the road again- he’s loves to eat and sleep but he’s hardly moved since he’s got here, and he’s worried he’ll have lost some of his strength- Sly at least can move about stealthily at night.

They load the van, and Murray carefully joins the raging traffic as they head out to the hills, where Rajan’s built his palace. As he drives, Bentley seems to settle a little in the cool, air-conditioned interior, and slips into a nap. Sly, in the meantime, looks out the window, preoccupied with his own thoughts.

 “Watcha thinking about, buddy?” Murray asks teasingly, elbowing his friend gently. “Ol’ Carmelita?”

 Murray is confused when something suspiciously like guilt passes over Sly’s features before he laughs. “Yeah, something like that,” his friend replies, drumming his fingers against his knee. 

 “India though, huh?” Murray muses, curious at his friend’s reaction. “The weather’s kinda bumming me out though.”

 Sly grimaces. “Yeah, I need a fully body shave or something.”

 “I need a full body  _ air-conditioner _ ,” Murray declares, and Sly chuckles. “You reckon Bentley could rustle one up for me?”

Bentley stirs in his sleep at the sound of his name, and they quiet down a little.

“You reckon the Inspector will be at this ball thing?” Murray asks, looking away from the road to gage his friend’s reaction.

 “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

 “Neyla will probably be there too- I bet the Inspector will love that,” Murray says jokingly, but Sly is silent suddenly, looking away. Murray isn’t smart like Bentley, but he’s pretty good at reading faces, and Sly’s face right now is his  _ I have a secret  _ face and Murray just has to know what that secret could be.

 “You gotta tell me,” Murray whispers.

 “Tell you what?”

 “You have a secret,” Murray tells him, and Sly looks back at him with steely eyes. “And you know how I feel about secrets,” Murray continues gleefully, a wicked grin working his mouth upwards. Sly, who usually at this stage would divulge some harmless act (“I accidentally dropped Bentley’s toothbrush in the toilet”) is looking very guilty. 

 “I ran into Neyla at Monaco,” Sly says quietly.

 Murray gapes at him. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

 Sly shrugs, looking back out the window. “Nothing happened. She just dropped some hints about India and the Clockwerk parts. I was going to tell Bentley but he had already found out where we were headed next before I got the chance.” 

But he still has his secret face on though, and Murray pushes. This isn’t a dirty toilet toothbrush, this is a situation where Sly put them all in serious danger.

 “And that’s all?” Murray asks. “She seemed pretty keen on you, Sly.”

Sly hesitates.

 “I knew it,” Murray crows. 

 “There may have been a bit of flirting,” Sly admits. “She was very much using me though. Seeing if I’d give her an indication of where we were headed next.”

 But Murray, whose romanticism surprises them all, including himself sometimes, says, “What about Carmelita?”

 “What about her?” Sly says defensively.

 “Well, you know,” Murray says. “You two kinda have a thing, dontcha?”

 “We’ve kissed once, Murray,” Sly says dryly. “Also, she tries to arrest me all the time.”

 Murray shakes his head. “I remember when you two ran into each other in Japan,” he tells his friend. “The camera footage of you two was pretty…?”

 “Intense?” Sly says, a little smiling curling his lips.

 “Bentley thought she was gonna kill you or kiss you.”

 “So did I.”

They both laugh, and Murray lets the subject slide- for now.

-

As they approach the cave that Bentley has located on the outskirts of the village Rajan resides over, the turtle fills them in on their next target.

 “According to my sources, Rajan’s a self made man. He started off selling illegal spices on the street as a child.”

 “Kids haven’t changed much,” Sly quips, hoping for a smile from his friend. Murray chuckles, but Bentley merely readjusts his glasses- sliding down his snout from all the bumps the van is going over.

 “He ended up with a sizeable operation stretching across most of Asia,” Bentley continues, mopping his brow. The van is state of the art, but not made to endure this level of heat. “Around twenty two, the Klaww Gang approached him.”

 “What for?” Sly asks. “What role does he play?”

 “I’m relatively certain he’s one of their main sources of income. I’ve been exchanging emails with some friends in the blackmarket in Vietnam, and they’ve told me he calls himself ‘Lord of the Hills’. The official profiling report done on him by Interpol suggests he’s got a severe case of little man syndrome.”

 Sly laughs. He’s seen photos of Rajan- the tiger is broad, tall, dwarfing Murray easily. “So which Clockwerk part does he have?”

“The wings,” Bentley says, and that old chill runs down Sly’s back as Bentley shows him a blurred photograph of an ornate throne, over which the wings hang menacingly, casting a long threatening shadow. “I found this after hacking through a dozen networks. Looks like they’re not being put to use, but we’ve yet to find out for sure.”

 Sly nods, lapsing into silence. His tail flicks, and he straightens up, watching the foliage flick by as they breach the forest, those wings casting a long shadow in his mind.

-

The van barely manages to conquer the terrain in the middle of the day, and the moment they find the cave, Murray sets to fixing it’s shot tires.

 Bentley and Sly, meanwhile, get to unloading the equipment and making a home away from home in the cave- cool, dry, dark, it’s a welcome change from the sharp sun and humidity. A few hours pass in companionable silence as Bentley sets up his portable solar battery, black market internet connector. Sly, meanwhile, sets up the beds and fold out furniture.  The act is calming, distracting. The cool air is a relief on his skin. Though his now shaved fur is far less likely to make him faint with heat, he’s still not as cool as Bentley and Murray, who are quite comfortable now they’re out of the sun. Bentley’s footsteps echo through the cave, and Sly comes back to himself.

 “Sly? It’s almost three. Time to head out.”

  -

As Bentley fixes his headphones and mike, checking Sly’s tracker, he connects to Sly’s communicator.

 “Ok Sly,” he says, “I need you to scope out the palace and find a way to get in the ballroom. Let’s find out who’s at this party.”

 “No problem,” Sly says over the line. The ball opens its doors at five and closes them at twelve. They have little time, and the pressure is on. Much to Bentley’s surprise, he’s been unable to get access to the private guest list- unusual, but then, Rajan is renowned in the underworld for using little technology.

 “Drawbridge is up,” Sly murmurs through the line. “I’m gonna have to go rock climbing.”

 “Careful of the security guards patrolling the outer wall,” Bentley advises him, flicking through the various camera feeds he’s hacked into. “They’re armed, but you should be able to get through with all the shade and foliage.”

 “Copy that.”

Bentley feels confident they can swing together a plan before their time runs out, but he’s sweating a little. Tonight’s going to be very tight, and they don’t have time to spare. Keeping the wireless headphones, he starts putting on his gear, setting out equipment. Murray comes up and does the same when Bentley prompts him, and they check each other’s various fasteners and buckles. 

 “Gonna be a busy night, huh?” Murray grunts, stretching out as Bentley settles back into his chair. He can hear Sly’s movement as he passes and sneaks, and turns his attention to the plans he downloaded of the temple, begins analyzing the camera surveillance. 

 “You don’t know the half of it,” Bentley says absently, looking between the plans and camera and audio feed. There looks to be a way in from the balcony on the jungle side, that Sly should be able to lock pick easily. He brings up Sly’s feed.

 “I figured out how to sneak in above the ballroom without being detected,” Bentley says. 

“I’m listening,” Sly grunts. Bentley can hear the rasp of something against fabric, and assumes Sly is scaling a tree. A small shard of envy for his friend’s athletic abilities stabs into him.

 “The only problem is there’s no way I can see from here to climb up to the balcony door.”

 “Not a problem,” Sly replies, not at all out of breath. “There seem to be plenty of branches for me to walk on. I’ll figure it out.”

- 

The branches are sturdy, thick, and he easily creeps along them above the resting guards with nary a creak. The thick trees make it so dark that he doubts they could see him anyway if they happened to look up. 

 He can hear snatches of conversation from below as he carefully selects a path to the ornate balcony, though his Hindi is basic and they speak a very thick dialect:

 “-look ridiculous.. don’t believe…”

 “Stupid. Why he… works for… spider…”

 “Terrifying…waste of spices…”

He strains to understand, but as he crosses above them, their words grow faint on the wind. Leaping onto the balcony, he quickly picks the lock and creeps into the palace.

 “I’m inside,” he murmurs. 

 “Easy does it, Sly,” Bentley says immediately, just as Sly almost walks out of the balcony room and straight into the eye line of the two guards standing watch outside. Sly freezes as Bentley keeps talking. “Just don’t go out onto that balcony and you should remain undetected. I don’t expect you to maintain radio contact with me in such close proximity to the guards.”

 Sly carefully, carefully creeps to the edge of the doorway and takes out the binocucom so he can begin reconnaissance. 

 The wings catch his eyes immediately. How can they not? They loom, impossibly tall even though Sly is high above them. His heart thuds painfully against his chest and he struggles to breath.

 “Sly? Everything okay?”

 Bentley’s voice is like a shove. Back in the present, Sly zooms in on the wings and starts taking photos.

 “Looks like the wings have been welded onto that statue,” Bentley says with distaste. Continuing with doubt, “They look… heavy. Getting them out of here will be a real challenge.”

_ No shit, Sherlock _ , Sly wants to quip, but as the guards shift their weight outside he holds his tongue. Looking around the room, he notices a hole in the ceiling; as he zooms in, he sees a winch.

 “An electronic winch? That could be useful,” Bentley muses, sounding relieved. Meanwhile, Sly has spied their target- Rajan, stalking across the balcony on the other side of the ballroom.

 Up close, the tiger is just as fierce as he looks in his photos, carrying a thick staff with a gem that Sly thinks looks quite similar to the one that sat on Dimitri’s mysterious ring. Unlike Dimitri, Rajan looks alert, fit, healthy. A threat.

 “That’s him,” Bentley murmurs. “Rajan’s really pulled out all the stops to impress people with this party.”

 Sly agrees- the finery (the finishing touches of which are still being put on) are extravagant to a fault, and Rajan is draped in thick ceremonial clothing.

 “He’s even wearing a  _ mysore peta _ ,” Bentley mutters. “And his  _ sherwani _ must have cost him a fortune. His spice operation is clearly going well. Maybe you should get some shots of the guests. A few have arrived early- I suspect they’re largely Interpol and various members of the Klaww Gang.”

   If Sly squints, he can see various people in the shadows of the opposite balcony. Zooming in, he switches modes on his camera, and everything brightens up nicely. The one who draws his eye most is a huge bison, in formal clothing that strains a little too tightly across his shoulders, and is so overtly out of place he has to be one of the guests Bentley was talking about: he snaps a picture.

 “Jean Bison,” Bentley says. Sly can hear tapping of keys on the other end. “A member of the Klaww Gang, and Canadian shipping baron. He owns half the trains in Canada. I’m surprised he’s actually come to this ball. He’s largely a recluse, doesn’t seem to interact too often with the other gang members.”

 While Bentley talks, Sly scans the room, patiently waiting, when an odd contraption sidles up next to Jean Bison. Zooming in, he can see that a bird with wasted legs sits inside. There’s no way in hell that such an obviously rich and eccentric looking character isn’t in the Klaww Gang, so he takes a picture.

 “Another Klaww Gang member,” Bentley confirms, “Arpeggio. Specializes in exotic technology. It’s likely, in fact, that he is where Dimitri got that ring from.”

 Something grabs at the edge of Sly’s memory, but he is too busy scanning the people and also watching the guards in the periphery of his vision that he doesn’t stop to consider it. 

 Then, the  _ Contessa  _ steps onto the balcony, and Sly frowns, immediately zooming in and sending a photo to Bentley.

 “Is that the Contessa?” Bentley says in disbelief. “She’s a high ranking  _ prison warden _ , why has Interpol assigned her to this case?” He pauses, the tapping of keys rapid fire. “She must be working undercover to expose Rajan’s spice ring,” he says a little doubtfully. Sly doesn’t blame him- spiders are rarely seen out, let alone as undercover cops. They’re too recognizable, too rare in India. 

 But if the Contessa is here, then…

She’s in the far corner, looking disgruntled, arms crossed over a classically cut dress that strains across her bust, hair pinned back in an elegant tail. His heart skips at her.

 Bentley, who is evidently growing impatient at the lack of pictures coming his way, clears his throat. Sly flushes beneath his fur and takes a picture.

  “Carmelita must be undercover with the Contessa to help bust Rajan,” Bentley theorizes. Sly is too busy gazing at the slit of her dress to pay too much attention. Inevitably, though, he sees the woman next to her, and he swallows.

 Neyla looks downright tempting. 

Carmelita, of course, looks classy, fierce. But Neyla, in her short dress and long, untamed hair, who is so aware of how every movement makes her look, deliberate and toothy, is distracting. Sly sends the picture to Bentley.

 “Another undercover cop?” He sounds worried. Not unusual, but still a concern. “Watch yourself, Sly. This party will be absolutely crawling with cops. That’s all the photos I need. Bring them back to the safehouse, and we’ll start building a game plan.”

-

Back at the safehouse, Bentley is talking rapid fire.

 “Stealing the Clockwerk wings in the middle of a crowded ballroom is going to take some serious misdirection,” Bentley says, pushing his glasses back up on his sweaty snout as he flicks through a few photos he’s managed to pull from various local wifi spots. He pauses on a photo of the Contessa: “The undercover squad of cops is only going to make more things complicated.”

 Murray looks at the photo of the spideress- eyes high and haughty, her hair a sheer drop. She looks utterly unnerving, and he’s very glad that Sly will be the one in close proximity with her. Bentley allows a second for the seriousness to sink in before swapping through photos to the one he wants. A photo of Carmelita briefly flashes, and he feels Sly shift slightly on his cushion next to him. 

 “Although,” Bentley says, settling on a photo of Neyla (Sly shifts again), “We might be able to use them to our.. advantage. But no matter what we do in the ballroom, sooner or later, we’ll need to deal with Rajan’s security chopper.”

 Finally, Murray thinks to himself, a little demolition.  

“Murray will be able to take it out with some of the armaments, but first, Sly has to lower the drawbridge for him,” Bentley concludes. “This should be a very quick, very easy job. We have to be as efficient as possible here, guys.”

 “Gotcha,” Murray grunts. 

 “Sly, you head out to the coordinates I’m uploading now, and we can lower that drawbridge.”

 “Sure thing chief,” Sly says easily. Twisting his earpiece back in, the raccoon slinks down the rough stairs and out into the warm dusky air. Bentley turns off the projector and returns to his place by his computer, headset on and ready.

 Murray takes this opportunity to stretch out, hydrate, and take a bathroom break, and when he returns, Bentley is talking to Sly.

 “The guards have recently taken up positions all around the palace. Sneak in, pick all of their pockets, and bring the keys back to the locked down winch. I’ve marked their routes in your binocucom- some idiot shared them online over social media.”

 Murray hears Sly say something back, then Bentley returns to the computer he was using when Murray went out.

 “Reckon we’ll make it in time?” Murray asks him.

Bentley exhales. “We should do, provided nothing goes wrong. Sly’s already got one of the keys now,” he adds, pointing at the screen which provides a live feed of Sly’s location and audio. 

 “How are we gonna get the wings off that statue?” Murray says. 

 “I haven’t even thought about that yet- it’s more the noise I’m worried about. I think Rajan’s using electrical systems to take care of the lighting, so I’m going to hack it to make sure the wings are barely lit.” He circles a print screen of the schematics of the wings. “Additionally, the density of people in the ballroom along with the live band should provide enough noise to cover the sound of the saw. Lifting it up is probably the thing you’ll need to worry about,” the turtle says ruefully. “If anyone notices you, you’ll be a sitting duck for gun fire.”

  Murray flexes his burly arms. “Not a problem, friend. The Murray is a machine, not a weak duckling.”

 Bentley grins a little, and Murray takes a seat while the turtle simultaneously keeps track of Sly and gets on with hacking and whatever else he’s doing on there. Murray is always impressed by Bentley’s mad multitasking skills, not to mention how quick witted he is. Murray’s instinctive reaction is to hit or flee, not think.

A burst of noise comes from Bentley’s speakers. “Nice work Sly. I’ll send Murray over now,” the turtle replies, then turns to Murray.

 “The bridge down?” Murray asks, standing up.

 “Yep. Head on over.”

Murray cracks his knuckles before putting in his earpiece and heading out. 

-

“Shit,” Sly says aloud. Bentley’s reply is immediate and alarmed:

  “Is everything ok?” the turtle says, and Sly can imagine him with his stubby little fingers poised over his keyboard, ready to shut down the entire city. The image is somehow very reassuring. 

 “I’m fine,” Sly says, perched in the shadows, “I just realized, they aren’t going to let me in without a tuxedo.”

 A moment of pause, and then a sigh of frustration. “I knew I forgot something. I somehow totally overlooked the need for formal wear.”

 “It’s okay, buddy,” Sly says. Usually he’d make a teasing remark, a quip about the Blizzard, but time is tight and he can’t afford Bentley to be distracted. “Don’t beat yourself up. At a party this ritzy, there has to be a spare penguin suit around here somewhere.”

 Bentley hums for a few seconds, presumably checking his map of the area. Sly’s Binocucom vibrates, and Sly opens it to find several waypoints marked in it’s viewfinder. “Try those guesthouses. I doubt someone bought an entire spare suit, but I’m sure enough people will have over packed that you can piece one together.”

 “No problem pal,” Sly says. “I’ll head over now.”

-

Rajan’s PA system is making Sly edgy. He’ll be tearing clothes out from a walk in robe, and then the tiger’s voice will boom from an area vaguely above him. So far he has a bow tie and a pair of pants that looks close enough to his size. He’s in the process of trying on a pair of shoes (they’re a little wide but they’ll have to do) when the door creaks open and a guard wanders in.

_ Shit! _

He throws himself under the bed before the guard can come around the partition. Looking out from under the bed, he’s extraordinarily glad that he didn’t make too much of a mess in this room- the guard seems satisfied enough after a few minutes, and leaves. Crawling out from under the bed, he takes a beat to recover before sneaking back out into the hallway, shoving the shoes along with his other findings into a bag he found in one of the previous rooms.

-

Cinching the belt in tight, he bends down to lace up his shoes. His field clothes go into the bag, and he climbs carefully up a tree and stuffs it between two branches. Returning to the main entrance to the ballroom, he brushes stray leaves from the coat, rakes through his hair with his fingers  and knocks sharply on the door- a massive wooden monster of a thing. 

 A glass strip slides back, and someone peers out at him.

 “I’m here for the party,” he says confidently, adjusting his bowtie. 

 “And you are…?”

 “As if I need an invitation,” Sly replies haughtily. “Open the door, I’m running late enough as it is.”

 “What’s your name,  _ sir?” _

 “Sir William Edgeworth,” Sly snaps. “Now open the door before I mention to Rajan that his butler is impeding his event.”

 The name checks out- Bentley pulled some favors to get it on the list- and after a few seconds of the doorman exchanging words with someone else, the strip of glass slides shut and the massive doors slowly swing open.

 Remaining true to character, Sly strides past when they’re barely open wide enough, and casts a derisive glance at the hulking monkeys operating the doors. They look concerned enough that he might report them, and they don’t say a word as he disappears down the hallway.

It’s a lavish spectacle, and he isn’t even in the ballroom yet. He passes by various guests, whom he doesn’t spare a glance. He looks out of place enough as it is, and if this is going to work, he has to use it to his advantage.

 A butler finds him on his way, and offers him champagne while guiding him to the ballroom. Sly waves away the glass –“No cheap French swill for me, thank you very much,” he says in a faux English accent (In English too, he’s been working hard on his languages since that dreadful conversation with Rudy a few months ago)- and rounds the final corner into a room that looks too large to fit in the building.

 “Good God,” he mutters to himself. It’s obscenity- drapes of pure silk, a thousand candles, incredible amounts of food. For a good few seconds, he’s overcome by it, and forgets what he’s there to do.

  His eyes come to rest on the Wings, though, and a chill runs down his back. They’re smaller than he remembers, but that shape- that silhouette. He can see Rajan from here in his throne, specifically illuminated by a singular spot light, but the sun itself couldn’t stop the shadow those wings cast.

 “Sly,” Bentley says, and brings the raccoon back to the present. “For us to get the Wings out of here, you’ll need to distract everyone in this room.

 “And how am I going to do that?” Sly murmurs, standing in a shadowy corner and pretending to sip from a glass he takes from a golden plate. 

 “This _ is _ a ballroom,” Bentley prods. “A breathtaking dance would most likely be appropriate.”

 Sly’s lips thin. “It’s been a long time since I won that championship in Seattle, Bentley.”

 “Please,” Bentley scoffs, “Last year you placed second for the Invitation Only tango.”

 “Strictly speaking, I wasn’t exactly invited,” Sly can’t help but needle, and Bentley huffs.

 “Look, find Carmelita. She’s done several tango competitions and placed in most of them. You’ll be able to distract the crowd- and her- while Murray gets the wings. The only problem is that she’s picky about dance partners, so before that, you need to impress her first.”

 Sly’s eyes find Neyla, in a small group of people, looking distinctly unimpressed. She flicks her hair back, and it falls over her shoulders like black water, and he grins, something coiling in his belly. Carmelita stands just next to her, and the coiling becomes heavy, thick, lustful.

 “Alright,” Sly breathes. “I know just the girl for the job.”

Approaching her from the other side of the room, he takes the time to look her up and down. In the tiny top and skirt she’s wearing, he’s surprised she was let in- she looks out of place in the formal wear surrounding her. But then, as his eyes glide back up over her waist, he’s not surprised at all. He pointedly ignores Carmelita- who, of course, with her sharp eyes is glancing at him suspiciously.

 A gentle hand on her forearm, a charming smile, his barely lit face , and his fluent English accent all serve to disarm her.

  “Constable Neyla,” he says, leaning in close to her ear so she can hear him, takes pleasure in how her fur ripples in response. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says politely, “Do I know you?”

  He grins crookedly, kissing her hand. “I used to chase after you in Paris.”

 Her eyes widen, and she guides him away from the little group. Looping her arm in his, she takes a flirtatious stance as they come to stop at a nearby pillar. 

 “You aren’t by any chance here to turn yourself in?” She leans in conspiratorially: “Old Ironsides would fall out of her dress.”

 That’s a distracting (and alluring) image he doesn’t need right now. He pushes away images of Carmelita’s dress on one of the guest house floors away, and turns the playfulness back onto Neyla. 

 “As good as that sounds,” he smiles, “how about a dance first?”

 Neyla smiles, offering her hand. He takes it, and guides them into the center of the floor, a sultry song having just began. A few other couples glide around them with ease- perfect. He can feel Carmelita’s eyes on them and he hasn’t even done anything yet.

 “Your accent is very convincing,” Neyla says in French. “You had me fooled.”

 “I’m glad to hear it,” Sly replies, taking her hand in his and assuming  _ abrazo cerrado,  _ a closed position. Her weight is indicative of her knowledge in classical dancing. Her connection is heavier than he likes in his followers, but her stance is strong. They ease into the song, as Sly finds the rhythm and becomes accustomed to how Neyla feels in his arms- she backleads, but easily overcome. He doubts she’s aware she’s even doing it. She also has the typical bad habit of second guessing herself. But once he gets her measure, he finds himself enjoying the dance. After a few bars, she murmurs to him, “Are you using me to get at old Ironsides?”

 Sly pauses in the break the song provides, then shifts into reverse embrace, her back flush against his front, and murmurs back, “Yes, I am. Do you mind?”

 She performs a surprisingly neat  _ caricias _ , her foot drifting up and down his shin, before he turns her back out into closed position. “Not at all,” she breathes wickedly, and he’s aware that if she had held that caress moments longer, he probably would have been half hard very, very quickly. 

 As they dance, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Carmelita very purposefully, but slowly, drift towards the floor. Turning gracefully on the spot, he also sees Rajan and Jean-Bison watching him, saying something to each other. 

 “It looks like you have their attention,” Neyla says. He turns her gently into a walk, intensely aware of how much leeway he can give her before she takes the opportunity to distract him further.

 “Not a difficult job,” he replies easily. “I imagine we make quite the couple.”

 The song finishes as he pulls her into a low dip. His muscles strain from lack of use, but her weight is easy to hold and as she looks up at him in a way that does have him half hard, much to his embarrassment.

 “I imagine we would,” she breathes, and he carefully restores her to his feet, checking his coat buttons while he thinks of wet dogs and naked old men.

 As the applause for the band dies down, she turns to him. “Thank you. That was delightful.” The little twinkle in her eye and the sinful smirk curling the corner of her lips lets him know his brief lapse in control over his own body was not unnoticed.

 “Thank  _ you _ , Constable Neyla,” he replies, as if neither of them are aware that his body had its own ideas about the dance. “It does take two to tango.”

 “Yes,” Neyla grins as Carmelita finally approaches them, though the grin is a little too full of teeth to be entirely sincere. “And three is always a crowd.” 

 “Neyla,” Carmelita says in French. Sly feigns incomprehension. “Your friend here is quite an accomplished dancer.”

 “I tried to make him look good,” Neyla replies in French, airily grinning. Sly takes a glass from a passing waiter, watching the dancers and eavesdropping terribly. Carmelita’s cutting response does not disappoint.

 “Please, Neyla,” She says coolly, “His skills far surpass  _ you. _ ”

 Sly swallows his champagne and tries not to cough. Neyla’s expression is polite but her eyes are daggers, and he takes this opportunity to take Carmelita’s attention.

 “Perhaps later you and I might share a dance, miss..?” His English accent (as well as his English) startles her, and she seems distracted enough by it, as well as the unmasked shape of his poorly lit face, to link him to her most hated criminal.

 “Miss Fox,” she replies. “Carmelita Fox.” Her English is absolutely wonderful as per usual- the grammar is fluent, the syntax flawless, but her accent is just thick enough that the words turn lyrical. “And… I accept your offer.”

 He grins at her, stunned anew. “I eagerly await it, Miss Fox. But if you’ll excuse me, there are some people I should probably make my greetings to.”

 “Of course. I’ll see you shortly, I imagine.”

 Her eyes linger on him, and it takes no touch to arouse him, not when she looks like that. He smiles gently, and takes his leave.

  -

Murray, meanwhile, is crouched on a rooftop after sneaking his way through the guard laden village, sweat dripping down his brow as he turns on the mounted cannon. Bentley is instructing him how to turn it on through his earpiece, and Murray’s fingers have never felt so clumsy, so thick and fat and useless. He wipes his forehead before crouching in front of the turret and yanking it upwards to face the chopper.

 ‘The chopper has missiles it will use against you,’ Bentley warns as Murray takes aim. ‘I’ve distracted the guards, and cut off comms, but make it quick. The noise will attract people.’

 Murray grunts in acknowledgement, firing rapidly at the helicopter. After a few seconds, it shoots back, and Murray hastens to blow the missiles out of the sky- clumsy, drifting things that seem technologically awkward, as if they’re prototypes for a better weapon. The turret grows warm, and the controls slick with his sweat as he tries not to waste a single shot.

 He’s not worried though now. It’s like a video game, really, and he’s really good at those. Bentley remains very quiet, making sure not to distract him, and Murray appreciates that. It doesn’t take too long before the helicopter, armored as it is, is smoking and denting, drifting off-balance. Abruptly, the helicopter veers off into the jungle, descending at an alarming rate into the bush. From this distance, Murray can barely make out two parachutes drifting downwards, and a brief flash of fire.

 ‘The sky’s all clear!’ Bentley says. ‘Good job Murray. Sly’s just made it back to the safehouse- get back, and we can start phase two.’

-

It’s now six o’clock, and the early sunset has settled into a deep dusk. They sit around Bentley’s little station, nuts and fruit and water bottles in hand as Bentley clears his throat.

 ‘Alright boys, we’re ready for the next phase.’ Pausing, he clicks to a picture of the Wings. ‘My plan to get at the wings involves the use of the winch in the ballroom.  To get control of the device, I’ll need to hack the computers in Rajan’s board room. They’re blocked off from all wifi, so I can’t do it from here. Plus, we’ll need an extra strong sawblade to cut the wings off the statue.” Bentley grimaces as he prepares to deliver one of the most ridiculous plan’s he’s ever made. “To make a sawblade that durable, I’ll need Sly to steal the gems off the headdresses on Rajan’s prize elephants.”

 Sly snorts, and Bentley turns a little red. “They’re a rare variety of diamond,” he snaps at Sly, who settles down, even as he and Murray exchange grins. “Finally, I’ll take to the air using my RC chopper and nullify the palace’s surface to air defenses. That should clear things up for the heist.”

 “Can’t I just take out the defences?” Murray asks in confusion. 

 “They’re too heavily guarded,” Bentley replies. “Plus, my RC chopper packs explosives, which will be needed. Sorry, Murray.”

 “Elephants,” Sly says with a shake of his head. “Rajan’s got a serious case of little man syndrome.”

-

After Sly leaves to make his way to the elephants under Bentley’s instructions, Murray escorts Bentley to where he needs to meet Sly. They’re half way there when in the far off distance, Murray can hear the trumpeting horns of what he thinks are-

 “ _ I got the elephants out,” _ Sly says over the intercom. ‘ _ Be careful- guards are trying to track them down, they won’t be sticking to their usual route.’ _

__ “No problem, Sly,” Bentley replies. “I’ll see you up in the board room shortly.”

 “You sure I can’t help with anything, Bentley?” Murray asks once some guards pass out of hear range.

 “Sorry, Murray,” Bentley shrugs. “The entrance is too small for you.”

 Murray doesn’t say anything, but his heart drops just a little bit. He and Bentley keep going, every now and then flattening against a wall as a guard runs by, shouting panicked instructions in Hindi through their microphones. Murray, in these moments, is acutely aware of his size, his loud breathing, and each time they unpeel themselves from the wall he avoids looking at Bentley. Finally after an hour or so of careful sneaking they get to the door Bentley needs to go through. He stands guard as the turtle picks the lock, and they make their way down to the vault room entrance.

-

Sly grimaces as he pulls himself through the fountain drainage pipe, keeping his cane out of the water. His bruised arms and legs, however, welcome the cold water. He never wants to see another elephant again in his life, and each time the stupid jewels in the waterproof backpack Bentley gave him rustle against a bruise, his mouth settles into a grimace.

  Finally, when he comes out the other side, the cool air conditioning blasts him and sets his teeth chattering; he quickly climbs out of the pool and sets his cane aside, pulling off his clothes and wringing them out, wiping his fur off. Confined in the shadows, he can see the bright lights of guards in the distance. The binocucom vibrates in the pile of clothes, and he quickly pulls the now damp clothing back on and answers Bentley’s call.

 “Murray’s rotund features prevent him from fitting through the drain pipe, so we’ll need you to unlock the vault room from the inside. I’ve managed to unlock the lobby doors and make my way downstairs, but the vault lock is beyond my basic knowledge.”

 “Not much of a Wizard, are you,” teases Sly, shoving his damp gloves in his belt.

  Bentley ignores this: “I’ve heard from a reliable source that the guards keep the vault combination written beneath one of their break tables. Once you have it, unlock their laser door.”

  “So you want me to crawl under each until I find it,” Sly says flatly. Even from the dim light cast by the guard’s torches, he can see dust and food crumbs. 

 “That’s the idea,” Bentley says, a grin in his voice, and ends the call. Sly purses his lips and stows the little communicator back in his waterproof leg pouch, entirely unamused by how an already distasteful beginning to this particular part of the heist has gotten worse.

 He sneaks past the guards, who amble by with undisguised boredom, vaulting the railing to the raised level and quietly crawling beneath table after table. He can feel the dust in his fur, and vows to have a swim in the river near the cave once this is over.

  Rajan’s voice comes over the PA, and Sly’s limited Hindi does him little to decipher it. Something about the party, and doors, and spices. He’s sure however that Bentley can hear it from where ever he’s waiting.  The last table has the code scrawled in thick black ink, and Sly has to shine his pocket torch at it to make it out. Quickly memorizing it, he crawls out and punches the code in: the laser barrier blinks out, and he skips over the alarmed floor with ease. He makes his way past the loot, and pulls down the switch next to the safe. 

-

The doors finally swing open, and Murray and Bentley come in, closing and bolting them behind them.

 “Thanks for breaking us in, pal,” Murray says to Sly, who is in the process of trying to brush out his fur and clothes. “The Murray approves.”

 “Lets get down to brass tacks,” Bentley says, before they get derailed. “I need to hack both the vault room computers to get control of the electronic winch above the ballroom.”

 “So what are me and Sly here for?” Murray asks, and Sly mutters his agreement, evidently sore, dirty, and tired from chasing the elephants around.

 “The second I enter their servers, they’ll be onto us. You guys need to work together to keep the thugs off my back.”

 Sly grins at Murray. “You and me, pal. Side by side.”

 “The Murray knows no fear,” Murray grins back, and they bump fists. Bentley rolls his eyes affectionately and sets up next to the right hand terminal, stowing his crossbow. He starts hacking the terminal, and right on cue, he hears the doors swing open. He forces himself to keep working, to trust that Sly and Murray have his back.

 The sound of fists and wood smacking against skin become background noise as he becomes properly immersed. The technology he faces is greater than he expected- challenging, but not at all insurmountable. His fingers feel like home against the keys, the code like walking into his childhood bedroom. He could only be more relaxed if his favorite compositions were playing in the background. He supposes the rough sounds of Murray smashing some thug’s nose will have to do.   

 He sneaks in some backdoors of his own for later use that no-one should be able to detect, and is just about to finish on the first terminal when a fist clenches around his neck and he is flung to the ground.

 He’s so in shock he can’t even retreat into his shell as a thuggish monkey punches him in the face. He feels something squish and crack and pain assaults his sinuses as he struggles on his back to flip over.

 “Bentley!” Sly roars, but is busy preventing another monkey from stabbing him in the side. Murray quickly comes to his aid, fury and fear in his eyes as he breaks the monkey’s leg in an uncharacteristic show of malevolence and tosses him to the level below. 

“Bentley, are you okay? Bentley?” Murray is saying. Bentley winces as the hippo helps him up, and then nearly falls over again when Murray is distracted by a charging baboon. Murray quickly disposes of the thug and returns to his side.

 “I- I’m fine,” Bentley says, touching the blood that's running from his snout. His face hurts a lot, but his eyes have regained the ability to focus. “You go help Sly, I gotta finish this computer.”

 He finishes hacking the first terminal, and quickly finishes the other now that he has a grasp of the system. He shuts off the silent alarm that’s calling the guards, and they all take a second to breathe. Bentley is keenly aware of the pain in his face, but a calm has settled on him. Finally, he’s experienced the pain he thought he would out in the field- and it wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be.

  “Thanks for the back up guys,” He says sincerely. Murray and Sly both look down.

 “Sorry we couldn’t do a better job,” Sly jokes weakly, gesturing at Bentley’s face.

 Murray is silent.

 “It’ll be fine,” Bentley says firmly, dabbing the blood off of his face gingerly with a handkerchief. “I’ve got control of the winch and that’s all that matters. Murray, let’s hook up the direct feed and get out of here while the coast is clear. Sly, I’ll see you back at the safehouse.”

 “But your nose,” Sly starts, btu Bentley shakes his head firmly.

 “It isn’t broken,” he says, gingerly testing the bone. “And we don’t have time to apply ice. Let’s just get this done.”

-

Murray is unable to meet Bentley’s eyes the entire time he escorts him to the next job, his feet heavy and his head low. When they get to the rooftop vantage point Bentley needs, Murray stands there silently while the turtle sets up the remote controlled chopper. The air is thick on his shoulders. 

 Bentley’s binocucom rings, and the turtle answers it. Sly’s voice is crackly on the other end.

 “ _ Bentley? What’s your status?” _

 “I’m in position with the RC Chopper _ , _ ” Bentley says, voice tinny. _ “ _ All systems are go to neutralize their surface to air defenses. We're going to need free reign of the sky during the heist.”

 “ _ Well, be careful _ ,” Sly replies, uncharacteristically somber. 

 “You know me, Sly,” Bentley says, tongue pinched between his teeth. The RC chopper hovers off the roof and into the sky. Murray remains silent, unable to muster up any enthusiasm for Bentley’s skill with robotics, or the small explosions they see in the distance as the chopper takes out the air defenses. It’s a quick job, and just in time too; as Bentley destroys the last turret, the sun has set. Finally, it’s time to begin.

-

“Okay,” says Bentley, “Synchronise your watches, because this heist is going to take  _ extreme _ precision.”

 Holding an icepack to his face, his voice is a bit muffled and his hand slips as he’s trying to change the slides. Huffing a little in annoyance, he smacks down on the slide button a little harder, missing Sly grinning despite his guilt. His friend’s face is already turning a deep purple, but the icepack and painkillers seem to be working.

  “Here’s the plan. I’ll start things off by demolishing the palace’s main bridge. That should cut off reinforcements from the guesthouse, and hopefully distract the guards watching the wings.”

 “Do you want me to stand guard, Bentley?” Murray says quickly, and Sly doesn’t miss the expression of guilt that has his large friend’s mouth turned down. 

 “No, no, you need to be ready in position, Murray,” Bentley says distractedly, and Murray’s mouth turns even further down. Sly pats his leg as Bentley continues.

 “Sly will then take Carmelita up on her offer for a dance. And, while the crowd is transfixed by their tango…” (Bentley wiggles his brows at Sly, who rolls his eyes) “Murray will lower into the ballroom on the electronic winch. Once down, he’ll cut the wings free, and winch back up for an exit.” Bentley pauses to look at Sly, who sits up a little straighter.

 “Sly, this will all take place over the course of one song. Once the song finishes, you need to make your exit and meet Murray at the van. I’ll have the engine running.”

 “Gotcha,” Sly nods.

 “Murray, while you make your way out of the palace, I’ll cover your exit with the RC chopper. Once you’re past the drawbridge, I blow it up to give us a head start, and we’re home free.”

 “Sounds good, Bentley. But what if the song isn’t long enough?” Sly asks.

  “That won’t be a problem. I’ve bribed the band to alter their setlist. You’ll need to ask Carmelita for a dance just as  _ Ole Guapa  _ finishes.”

 “What’ll the song be?”

 “ _ Jalousie _ .”

 Sly groans. “Really, Bentley? Your subtlety could use some work. Besides,  _ Jealousie _ is only three or so minutes long.”

 “I picked it for it’s loud soung, Sly, don’t get ahead of yourself. There are also several arrangements which are five or six minutes long- they’ll be playing one of those. Five minutes and twenty four seconds exactly, by my count.” Bentley clears his throat, and then exhales.

 “What is it, Bentley?” Sly says in exasperation.

 “You’ll really need to pull out the stops here, Sly. Do whatever you need to do to keep the crowd –and Carmelita- distracted.”

 Sly grins.

-

With the bombs all set, Bentley steps a careful distance from the bridge and checks in with Sly and Murray, who are both ready to go. Sly in the ballroom, waiting for the guards to leave; Murray next to the winch, harnessed up and diamond-saw in hand. Once they give the affirmative, Bentley takes a deep breath and presses the detonator.

 The explosion is loud and obnoxious. Chunks of the bridge fly in several directions (he’s thankful for his helmet) and even as Bentley runs into the distance he can hear the radios of dozens of the rooftop guards crackling into life as someone calls it in. His feet, luckily, carry him quickly enough that he misses the action, sprinting to his rooftop vantage point next to the van. It’s up to Sly and Murray now: he only prays that Sly has been downplaying his ability to dance.

-

Bentley has timed everything down to an impeccable fault; the guards are having a quiet but intense discussion with Rajan halfway through  _ Ole Guapa _ , leaving plenty of time for Sly to lead Carmelita onto the dancefloor.

 Once more in his tuxedo, his fur impeccably styled, his lapels neat and stylish, Sly’s chest is pounding in excitement. It’s not often he gets to spend time with Carmelita up close and personal- without her pointing her gun between his eyes.

 She’s standing at the edge of the dancefloor by herself, hip jutting out as she listens to the band appreciatively, watching the dancers with a rare smile on her face.

 “Murray?” he says quietly into his earpiece. “You in position?”   
 “ _ Check _ ,” Murray says back, and Sly subtly glances upwards. He can see Murray’s outline just barely. Bentley has dimmed the lights even further in the ballroom: the effect is dramatic, mysterious. The guests are loving it- chatter fights the band’s sound for dominance.

 “Get ready,” Sly says. “The guards are leaving now.”

 “ _ The moment the next song starts, I’ll start lowering myself down _ ,” Murray promises.

 “Miss Fox,” he greets her, his English accent back on. “I believe you owe me a dance?”

 Her dress, he decides, is sin cut from fabric. He wants to touch her. She looks utterly gorgeous, and he has a rare moment of true and quiet happiness; when she turns and sees that it’s him, she looks a little- just a little- glad.

 “About time,” she says, teasing words twisted by a bit of annoyance. “I thought you’d left.”

 The fact that she has been waiting to dance with him makes his heart pound. He extends his hand as suavely as possible.

 “Just waiting for the perfect moment,” he says just as the song finishes and the words that should be swoon worthy turn quiet and sincere. She looks a little disarmed- all the better. Leading her onto the floor, she carefully, lightly, drapes her arm over his. The simple contact, even through the fabric of his shirt and jacket, make him shiver. She meets his eyes and he feels a deep tug in his heart, his stomach, his groin. Thankfully, mercifully, they are the only ones on the floor.

 The song starts off loud enough that it maintains the fight for dominance over the sound of people chatting. 

  Sly registers it only at the most base level. 

  Dancing with Neyla had been sensual, fun, but Carmelita’s posture, her connection- perfect. They’ve done little more than touch and he can not believe she only placed, rather than won, those tournaments.   
  Sly is, at his heart, a romantic, and dancing for him is at its zenith, a wordless conversation between two people. With Neyla, the conversation had been easy if not uncomfortable in some aspects, two people with a good understanding of each other, an exchange of experiences and thoughts with an newly made friend. With Carmelita, even the wordless conversation he is used to is silent; he thinks not in moves, but fleeting connections, heat, glances. Thirty seconds into the song, and he is already drawing the eyes of the crowd, of Rajan, of Neyla, and they are barely moving; all he has done is slowly slid his hand up her side, extended her arm, fingers tracing along the underside of her wrist. His fingers have narrowly avoided brushing the side of her breasts, and he feels the finest of tremors run through her body. Their noses are brushing, and he is staring at her, into her. 

Then, finally, they dance.

-

Murray saws furiously through the metal connecting the wings to the chair, all to conscious that he has precious seconds to achieve this monumentally difficult task. His fingers, fat and clumsy though they are, have mercifully served him when he’s most needed them. As he grabs the first wing, he glances over at Sly and Carmelita, and he swallows at the sight of them.

 Their dancing is sweeping, small, fast, slow, loud and then quiet. They’ll pace across the floor, then suddenly and softly, stop, moving around each other, Sly’s hands running down her back, her shoulders; her legs are entwined in his, curls of hair escaping from her otherwise perfect hairstyle. He has to tear his eyes away, having wasted those precious seconds on a sight he knows he will never forget. He hopes that somehow, Bentley will be able to find footage of it. The second wing joins the first in his arms, and he sets the winch winding slowly back up, relief light in his lungs as he takes the slow ride up to return his eyes to the couple on the dance floor.

-

Sly is possibly harder than he’s ever been in his life, and he can’t bring himself to care (though later, he will be glad for the low light and his tight pants constricting him).  Her back pressed against his front, surely she can feel it- but she doesn’t seem fazed, gazing up at him from behind those tiny escaped curls, her eyes endless. He turns her around him in awe. In the back of his mind, as a dancer, he’s impressed by her incredible range of styling, her sense of musicality, how easily she responds to his directions, how wonderfully she reacts to him. But more immediately, he is stunned and aroused and powerfully, powerfully moved in every part of his body. 

 As the song closes and he eases her into a dip, he can only hope this feeling isn’t one sided; he holds her there while the entire room claps thunderously, and pulls her back up slowly, holds her against him, memorizing the smell of her perfume, the feel of her breathing against him.

 “Tell me, stranger,” she says into his ears, in a tone of voice he has never in his life heard from her outside of his late night dreams. “What’s your name?”

 His heart swells so powerfully, he almost tells her. But out of the corner of his eye, he sees Murray is pulling the wings up. He takes a few seconds to allow this feeling, this memory, to solidify into one he won’t forget.

 “Why ruin the moment?” he murmurs, and she pulls away from him. Already, he feels colder, and tenses in preparation for what is inevitably to come.

 “I… I don't understand,” she says.

 “The wings!” Rajan roars, the room shaking with his fury. “ _ Where are the Clockwerk wings? _ ”

 Even as Carmelita turns to look at the statue, Sly deftly slips the rose that had been in his lapel into her hair, his calling card attached. By the time she even registers the wings are gone, he’s slipping out of the room. His eyes land on her just as she sees the calling card attached to the rose, those elegant fingers balled into shaking fists, and his lips lift in a rueful smile before he makes his escape.

-

Murray pounds down the street as fast as his legs can carry him, guards and explosions sounding behind him as Bentley’s little chopper leaves a storm of sleeping gas behind him.

 As far as situations go, he’s had worse; Bentley’s aim is impeccable, and he trusts his friend to watch his back- better than Murray ever could. And even if he takes a few hits, he feels, right now, like he deserves a lot worse for failing the only true job he’s ever had.

 The streets seem to go on and on. The wings aren’t exactly light, and they aren’t exactly a convenient size; when he finally reaches the van, he’s relieved to be able to slot them into the back and take his place behind the wheel.

 The drawbridge explodes fantastically behind them, and as Bentley hopes into the car and slams the passenger door, Murray’s foot pumps the gas and finally, finally, finally, they’re home free.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jealousie can be found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZUW_DKlM8Og  
> sly and carmelita's tango was modelled on this gorgeous video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i3vsiiRK5GU
> 
> I did a fair bit of research on various indian ceremonial clothing but please let me know if I have anything wrong!


	5. interlude: bollywood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (this is a fanwork; i am making no money, i own nothing, and i'm having a good time)
> 
> fritters, camera footage, the jungle

Sly and Bentley sit on the nearby rooftop, binoculars pressed to their eyes, earpieces on and broadcasting.

 “ _ I dunno how I feel about this guys,” _ Murray says nervously, and Bentley makes a dismissive but reassuring noise. 

 “Don’t worry about it Murray,” Bentley says, “You’ll be fine.”

 “You look great in that outfit,” Sly adds. 

 Murray chuckles down the line, and they hold radio silence for a few seconds, watching the people below in the square scurrying about, prepping lights and cameras and microphones. Someone yells something in Hindi, and lights and music blare, and Sly and Bentley exchange grins as Murray appears, dancing in the middle row of one of the chorus lines. They switch off their earpieces to prevent the feedback from all the music.

 “You know,” Bentley says, chewing on some _kand_ _pakora_ , “He’s actually pretty good.”

 “Yeah,” Sly agrees, watching Murray and taking one of the fritters for himself. “Maybe he should have danced with Carmelita instead,” he jokes, and Bentley grins.

 “That reminds me,” the turtle says, his voice laced with smugness, “I have something for you when we get back to the hotel.”

-

Bentley sits Sly in front of his laptop and opens up a video file. 

 “Murray asked me to find this footage for you. I’ve enhanced it a bit and done some editing. It’s saved on our cloud, so you can watch it whenever you want.”

 Sly rolls his eyes, even though his heart tightens in anticipation for what it surely must be. 

 “Murray and I are going for a swim in the hotel pool,” Bentley continues. “We’ll see you out there.”

 But Sly, his eyes already fixed on the screen, doesn’t even hear him, as he watches his hand sliding up Carmelita’s side. Bentley leaves the room, and Sly watches the footage over and over until Bentley and Murray come back and drag him out for dinner.

-

A few days later, Bentley finally manages to find a couple of badly coded emails that tell them all they need to know.

 “Oh, you  _ have  _ to be kidding me,” Bentley says loudly.

 “Where is he?” Sly asks, looking up from the Theivious Racoonus. They’ve been helping him add in his own entries lately, and he’s taken to reading previous entries from his ancestors for inspiration.

 “Out in the middle of nowhere,” Bentley says loudly. “I can’t believe this.”

 “It’s no problem Bentley,” Murray soothes as he tucks into a bowl of curry, “That’s what the van is for.”

 “We can’t drive to where he is,” Bentley says grimly, unfurling a map and marking Rajan’s location. “We’re going to have to hike most of the way there.” 

-

“This is impossible,” Bentley grumbles, smacking another mosquito. 

“Speak for yourself,” Murray says cheerfully. Even though he’s lugging most of the gear, something about hiking through such a lush and colorful jungle cheers him up; the strain of his muscles, the pumping of his lungs, the satisfaction of carrying something essential and heavy a long, long way.

 “How much further before our next stop, Bentley?” Sly asks, mopping his brow. They’re all in light weight hiking gear, and Sly, the typical European mammal of the group, is suffering the most in this heat. Stripped down to his shorts, his recently shaven fur drips with sweat.

 “A few more miles,” Bentley says regretfully. “But we should get there by tomorrow afternoon.”

 “Thank God,” Sly moans, taking a swig from his bottle. Murray feels sorry for him. At least the heat is getting better the further they go in- it’s a thick wetness now in the air, and through the trees Murray can see thick grey clouds that promise rain.

 The van is some many miles away, hidden carefully in foliage between two outcroppings. Murray feels uncomfortable with it being so far away- like another member of their family has been left behind. He’s had the van since he was sixteen, renovating an old shell from scraps they salvaged across the Parisian junkyards. It may not look as flashy and colorful as it did while they hunted Clockwerk and his gang (they all agreed that it probably needed to look substantially less like an advertisement for the Theivious Racoonus) but he’d kill to see that dark grey paintjob again.

 “This is hell,” Sly moans a few miles later.

 “Luckily for you,” Bentley says, pushing his glasses up his sweaty snout, “we should be close now.”

 And indeed, as Bentley reaches out to push away some leaves, they part to show an ancient crumbling temple, littered with lurking guards and spotlights.

 “Found you,” Bentley says grimly.


	6. The Predator Awakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tensions arise; everything goes to shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this is a fanwork; i am making no money, i own nothing, and i'm having a good time)  
> hoo boy this is a long chapter, and a hard one to write

**** Sly creeps through crumbling ruins and thick tree roots, rain dripping lethargically through the tall trees. He’s sweating in buckets, even though as of now he is only clad in light weight shorts, and his gloves are slide on his cane. Being here takes him back to Haiti, to Mz Ruby, to her shambling undead children and terrible sharp teeth.

 The guards are bigger here, meaner looking, but Sly slips by them with nary a whisper, the gentle rain pattering out the faint crunch of dirt and rock underfoot.

 After he crosses the bridge and comes next to the murky river, he crouches and takes out his binocucom.

 “ _Sneak into the temple and take some recon photos so I can assess the situation,”_ Bentley says absently, his eyes focused elsewhere. “Just be careful,” he adds, looking a little more sharply in Sly’s direction. “ _If you get hurt, the nearest hospital is a hundred and six miles from here._ ”

 Sly finds that he doesn’t have a clever quip to respond with. “How am I going to get into the temple? I can’t scale those walls.”

 Bentley takes a few seconds, disappearing briefly off camera to rustle in some paper out of sight. “ _ According to my map of the area, there should be a hidden entrance to the temple behind that waterfall _ .”

 “Good,” Sly grumbles, wiping his forehead. “I’ll take a hidden passage over the front door anyday.”

 He closes the binocucom back up and sneaks around a truck covered in leaves. A guard looms out of the gloom, and Sly barely has enough time to press himself against the rock; heart pumping, he watches the guard amble past. As soon as he’s certain it’s safe to move, he throws himself behind the waterfall, where it’s substantially cooler.

 The drain is, thankfully, in good enough condition that he can lift it without a rusty screech. He shimmies underneath, rocks and dirt gritty against his underbelly, and continues on through the darkness. 

 “Bentley,” he says, taking out the binocucom once more, “I’m in. How long does this tunnel go for?”

 “ _ Not very long at all,” Bentley informs him. “Be careful, though. I have so few records of this place that I’m not going to be able to help you very much.” _

__ The tunnel abruptly grows lighter, and as Sly turns around a bend he comes out into a huge cavern that smells like a spice rack and mildew. 

_ “Bingo, you found the spice growing facility. Now, from what I know of photosynthesis, all the expensive equipment should be found at the top of this room. _ ” Bentley pauses, taps a few keys, and a waypoint appears in Sly’s HUD.  _ “That access tube should get you up there.” _

“Thanks, Bentley,” Sly says, sniffling. The mixture of spices and humidity is gunking up his nose, and breathing has suddenly become a lot harder. “I’ll let you know when I make it up.”

  Creeping through, there are guards everywhere. Sly hesitates, before spotting the vines curled all along the edge of the platform. He lowers himself, cane between his clenched teeth, and slowly, painstakingly pulls himself along the slowly rippling water, and then back up past the guards. Turning the corner, he dives behind some boxes as a guard with a lantern swings past.

 Cursing to himself, he ducks his head out to survey the situation; guards on both levels, both with lanterns and crossbows… when his eyes land on the buckets going up and down, transporting the water, his lips thin.

  -

When Bentley picks up Sly’s feed again, he’s met with a very wet and very disgruntled raccoon.

 “ _ Don’t ask _ ,” Sly says. “ _ I’m in the room. Starting the photos now.” _

__ The first photo comes through; half the heart, suspended over the plants by an electronic winch of some kind that plugs straight into the old owl’s most precious internal organ.

 “Looks like half of the heart is being used to super irrigate the spice plants,” Bentley says, studying where the wires lead- all around to sprinkler systems, he would assume. The next photo shows where the other half of the heart is- on a staff in Rajan’s massive paws.

 “Why is Rajan carrying half the Clockwerk heart on that stick?” Bentley says, bewildered. The staff is no mere wooden creation either, on second glance- made of elegant metal, dials and buttons towards the top. It looks so out of place in Rajan’s grasp that Bentley is downright mystified as to what he’s doing with it.

 Sly doesn’t respond, apparently still in a grump. The next photo comes through. 

 A crane, double locked- Bentley supposes that is what holds the incredibly heavy organ in the air.

 “That crane is keeping the other half of the heart suspended,” Bentley thinks aloud. The mix of primitive contraptions and elegant technology in this room is bewildering. Arpeggio is clearly assisting Rajan here, but not all the way to a truly efficient greenhouse. Bentley files this thought away, just as Sly sends the next snap through; a craggy, dark, jagged entrance.

“And there’s the entrance to this level… although I can’t figure out how to get in here from the temple’s exterior,” he says in frustration as he looks at all his maps. After a while, Sly clears his throat and Bentley startles from his thoughts.

 “Come back to the safehouse, Sly. We’ll really need to think about this one.”

-

“The Clockwerk heart is under some steep security,” Bentley grumbles, the projector flipping through various photos that Sly managed to snap. “Not to mention, Rajan is carrying half of it at all times!”

 Even after hours of research, Bentley can’t for the life of him figure out why Rajan has half the heart on the strange staff, outside of making it difficult to steal the thing completely. Murray finds it mildly disturbing, the thought of half a heart (even a metal one) being paraded around on a stick.

 “To get at the goods, I’ll need to gather some more information,” Bentley says. “Sly, you’ll plant a bug in Rajan’s office while I lift the blueprints for this area off the spice lord himself while he makes his daily rounds.” He holds up a hand when Murray and Sly both begin to protest this. “Unfortunately,” he continues, “While we collect data on him, he’ll be doing surveillance on us using an… elephant driven… satellite array.”

 “A what?” Sly says aloud. Bentley gives him a very tired look, and the raccoon shuts his mouth.

 “We have to take it out, or he’ll intercept all our communications. Once these three jobs are done, we’ll be able to form a better plan.”

 He flicks the projector off, and immediately Sly begins talking again.

 “You can’t  _ pickpocket Rajan, _ ” Sly says, “The guy isn’t some idiot dog! I should be doing it!”

 “Rajan is too flighty for you to even get close,” Bentley says. “I’m going to knock him out with some sleeper darts, don’t worry.”

 “Then let me do it,” Sly insists. “I’m faster, more mobile, quieter- if something goes wrong, I’ll be able to lose him-“

 “Sly,” Bentley says, voice hard. “Just because I am not an award winning dancer and an Olympic level athlete from a clan of master thieves doesn’t mean I am not capable of doing this job.”

 Murray’s never heard Bentley sound so cool and flinty. Sly falls silent, cowed.

 “Uh, Bentley,” Murray says, and flinches when Bentley swings his head around to him, as if preparing for another shut down. “How is Rajan spying on us with elephants?”

 The fight goes out of Bentley, and the turtles crosses his arms, shaking his head. “I honestly have no idea, Murray. Some of the tech Rajan’s buiklt here- it’s nothing I’ve ever seen before. My theory is that Arpeggio is advising him on how to build low cost equipment that no-one else is going to pick up. It’s ingenious, and in any other situation, I’d be impressed.” Bentley rubs his chin. “But right now, we’re going to have to fight fire with fire and use some ingenious ideas of our own. We aren’t going to be able to use hi tech stuff here. It’s too noticeable, and it’s too far out of reach of the usual channels I use.”

 “So, how are we bugging the office?” Sly asks.

 Bentley grins.

-

“You can not be serious,” Sly says, loudly, and Bentley starts laughing. 

  “ _ I’m perfectly serious.” _

  “Let me get this straight,” Sly says flatly. “We’re going to bug Rajan’s office… with a bug.”

  “ _ It’s an elegant plan, I agree _ ,” Bentley says cheerfully. “ _ We’re very lucky that particular species is in the area. Not many bugs’ wings act as a sound transmitter. Now pay attention. That water bug can only survive in stagnant pools. If kept out of water too long, it’ll become unhappy and likely draw the attention of local guards _ .”

  “Fantastic,” Sly grumbles, crouching down to look at the bug in particular. “And what happens if it decides to move once I put it in his office?” 

 “ _ It won't _ ,” Bentley promises. “ _ The bug doesn’t move as long as there’s water and algae, and there will be algae in every stagnant pool of water you find here. It’s asexual, so it doesn’t rely on outside assistance _ .”

 Sly peers over the edge of the incredibly unstable structure. “Looks like there are plenty of pools around,” he notes. “It shouldn’t be a problem.”

 Bentley signs off, and Sly scoops the bug up and gently puts it in his leg satchel before scaling down the walls and making his way to the next pool. He can’t believe that they’re going to eavesdrop on Rajan using a pun. 

 He’s aware of a vague chirping noise, and when he takes the bug out to douse it in water, the noise becomes much louder.

 “Jeez,” he mutters. “Talk about impatient.”

 After a few seconds, the bug quiets again, and crawls around Sly’s finger. It’s cute enough. Sly’s never been afraid of lesser bugs. Murray has a conniption though if he is left in a room with them. Spiders especially.

 The trip to Rajan’s office is uneventful, save for a few moments where Sly struggles to find ways up to a pool. He’s keenly aware of the moisture on his fur. He stinks of dead leaves and algae and sweat. Sly has never been too strict on personal hygiene, but he usually showers once a day. It’s now been a week since he last had a warm shower and it’s starting to get to him.

 He creeps into Rajan’s office, confident that Bentley’s sources are correct when they say the tiger is in the spice rooms. The office smells of cat fur and fragrant spices, and his nose starts getting sniffly again. 

 The floor lasers look incredibly out of place, but they’re still pretty primitive and he hops over them with ease, depositing the bug in a small fountain that seems have been long broken. The bug settles down and Sly opens up the binocucom.

 “Bentley, it’s in.”

 “ _ I’m already tuned in _ ,” Bentley says smugly. “ _ I’m a genius _ .”

 “Quit bugging me, Bentley,” Sly quips halfheartedly, and signs off, making his way to the next job.

-

While Sly creeps up the slippery jungle trees, searching for spices with which to poison the elephant, Bentley is scrolling through pages and pages of data, police files and newspaper headlines. Murray sits behind him, taking the time to practice his yoga.

 Bentley is on the hunt for why on earth the Contessa was at the ball- why such a high profile, well known and recognizable officer was placed undercover at such a delicate event.

 The files give him no clues- the data is matter of fact, lacking in detail besides the recorded events Bentley already knows. Something’s off, but he can’t figure out what it is.

 After half an hour of trawling through pages and pages, Bentley rubs his eyes and sits back with a sigh, glancing at Murray, who is in the middle of doing  _ tittibhasana, _ the firefly pose.

 “What’s up Bentley?” Murray says without looking up. Bentley smiles. Murray doesn’t give himself enough credit. Sly may be flexible, but not to the level Murray has worked himself to get to. Keeping himself in the air with only his arms supporting him, Murray is sweating but unbothered.

 “The Contessa being at Rajan’s ball doesn’t make any sense,” Bentley says, stretching. “There’s no reason for her to have attended, and there’s no data files which back it up.”

 “A mystery,” Murray nods, letting himself down and bending into  _ janu sirsana _ , pressing his head to his knees. “The Murray was never any good with detective novels,” he says, voice muffled against his strong thigh.

 “That’s my job, Murray,” Bentley says, half joking. “I wouldn’t be particularly helpful in an action novel.”

 A loud noise outside grabs their attention; Bentley dashes to the gaping hole in the wall that serves as a window and can see the satellite array in trampled ruins, the elephant nowhere in sight. 

 “Nice work, Sly,” Bentley says into his headset.

 “Thanks,” Sly says, ducking his head up into the window and scaring Bentley half to death; Bentley topples onto his shell and Murray starts laughing. Bentley crosses his arms, unable to get up until Sly offers him a hand, wiping tears of laugher from his eyes.

 “Thanks,” Bentley says crossly, brushing himself off. “Very mature, Sly.”

 “I try,” Sly shrugs, taking Bentley’s headset and sitting down at the desk. “You better head out, Bentley. I suspect Rajan will be a little early for his daily tour when he hears the news about his satellite.”

 Bentley nods as if he isn’t aware of this painfully obvious fact, already slinging the holster for his crossbow over his shoulders. Sly puts a hand on Bentley’s narrow shoulders; his palm nearly takes up half Bentley’s arm.

 “Be careful out there, Bentley,” Sly says, his mouth an odd mix of frown and lopsided smile. Bentley stiffens. “How far away did you say the nearest hospital was?”

 “A hundred and six miles,” Bentley snaps, shrugging off Sly’s hand. “I told you Sly, I’m the best person for this mission.”

 He scurries out the cave’s entrance, wishing that there was a door to slam. Why is it so difficult for them to understand?  _ He can do this. _ Honestly, he thinks to himself, grumbling, he doesn't need them as much as they think. If he had the time, he could build machines to replace them, a biomechanical suit for himself. He may not have their strength or speed, but he has logic, a photogenic memory, the benefits of being very small and unremarkable. What he knows of this place, he knows off by heart- indeed, he steps behind a crumbling building preemptively, knowing a guard is about to walk past- and the guard ambles by, unaware, chewing a wad of tobacco. 

 If anything, he thinks defiantly, without him, without his brains- they would never have stopped Clockwerk in the first place. 

 After a few minutes of climbing, all the huff and puff ebbs out of him and Bentley scrambles up to the vantage point, just in time for the call from Sly, who is monitoring Rajan and the feedback from the bug. Bentley can see Rajan a mile away, muted orange against the dark green of the forest.

 “As I expected,” Bentley says before Sly can speak, “Rajan is out for his daily tour of the operation. My sources claim he always carries three blueprints on him, which, when read together, tell you everything about his spice operation.”

 “ _ Too bad he doesn’t have that half of the heart we saw during recon _ ,” Sly mutters. “ _ You could just pump him full of sleep darts and we could all go home _ .”

 “Unfortunately, my sleep darts aren't powerful enough to affect Rajan,” Bentley says, loading up his crossbow with the special darts he’s been saving for such a situation.

 “ _ What? How are you going to get at those blueprints _ ?” Sly exclaims. Bentley can see his tail flicking in agitation behind him. The ire of their earlier conversation creeps back and makes his fingers drum against the crossbow’s handle.

 “Rajan has an insatiable appetite for Indian watermelons,” Bentley replies. “ _ Which _ , if eaten whole, will force even him to nod off for a while. Once he’s asleep, I’ll creep in, and lift the blueprints.”

 It’s not his finest plan, by any stretch of the imagination, and Sly’s quirked brow makes Bentley’s lips thin.

 “ _ That’s… fine, and all, but how do you plan to lure him to the melons _ ?”

 “I’ve equipped my darts with a sonic disruptor. The strange noises the darts will make on impact should be enough to lead Rajan from place to place.”

 Sly doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. Bentley is distracted by Rajan’s prowling.

 “ _ Bentley _ ,” Sly says slowly.

 “Be quick Sly, I need to keep track of Rajan.”

_ “… Nothing. I’ll see you back here soon _ .”

 The raccoon signs off, and honestly, Bentley is relieved. He just wants to get this job done. There several crops of the watermelons all over the area. He just needs Rajan to nod off once, ideally; that’s all it should take for him to snatch the blueprints. Even from here, he can see them- little bits of blue tucked between the fabric of his top.

 Taking aim, he shoots out the dart a few meters away from Rajan, who immediately looks towards the noise. It doesn’t take much for Bentley to start leading him towards the nearest crop.

 As he leads Rajan, he creeps closer, wary of guards and the slippery ground. It wouldn't quite do for him to fall into the rushing river.

 Soon enough, Rajan is right next to the crop, looking around madly for the source of the noise. Bentley takes the opportunity to creep behind the trees, the rain masking the rustling of leaves. After a good twenty minutes, Rajan relaxes, stamping the butt of the staff into the ground as he stretches his craggy shoulders. Bentley glances at the staff, which looks just as bizarre and mystifying as it did in the recon photos.

 Come on, he urges silently.  _ Look at the watermelon _ .

 Gratifyingly, Rajan does, and immediately picks it up, a grin revealing yellowed incisors. Breaking it in half, he starts consuming it voraciously while he ambles away.

 Bentley follows him, and after a while, Rajan sits down, and promptly dozes off beneath the cover of the trees.

 Another fifteen minutes later, Bentley approaches with deathly patience and calm, incredibly aware that this isn’t exactly safe. He holds the crossbow carefully, angled at Rajan’s face (but his finger off the trigger) in case the tiger takes up. A sleep dart wouldn’t stop him, but it would certainly puncture an eyeball. The thought makes him ill, but he’d rather a corrupt spice merchant peddling substances akin with narcotics be down an eye than Bentley himself be down several limbs.

 After an eternity of carefully moving away the fabric covering Rajan’s chest, the blueprints appear, tied to a holster not unlike Bentley’s. Internally groaning, his blunt fingers fiddle with the fastenings. At every slight movement, Bentley pauses, searching Rajan’s face for the signs that he’s exiting REM sleep.

 Sweat slides down his snout, and he finally pops the clasps open, easing out the three blueprints one at a time. With every blueprint, he sweats more and more, his heart pounding in his chest. Finally, he stows them in his own holsters, and creeps silently away through the trees towards the safehouse. He’s halfway there when he hears the most ferocious roar, and then he starts running. He knows his scent is difficult to distinguish, but he‘s already slopped through the shallow banks of the river, and he glances back as he climbs up the ladder to the safehouse entrance to see the tiger roaring and prowling around the riverbank, surrounded by guards.

 “Great fieldwork, Bentley,” Sly says, and Bentley sits down, the breath knocked out of him. “You’re really getting the hang of this.”

 The words calm him, and a pride swells his chest. He spreads the blue prints out, and is immediately relieved with what he sees. 

 “I’m going to go through these and draw up the next phase,” he says absently, mind already whirling. “It’s only gonna be harder here on out. It might be worth both your whiles to grab some sleep while you can.”

 Sly salutes, and Murray (in the thick of one of his favourite comic books) nods. Bentley takes out his laptop and graph paper, and gets to work.

-

A few hours later, Sly and Murray both look up in surprise when Bentley swears loudly, the sound of something hitting the plastic fold up desk they take with them at all times. Both of them are already scrambling through the hole in the wall from the bedroom, terrified, but it’s just Bentley, picking up the pair of headphones he angrily tossed to the tabletop.

 “You okay, Bentley?” Murray rumbles, relaxing.

 No,” Bentley mutters. “Give me another hour or two, I have to rethink  _ everything _ .” So they leave him, shaking his head and cursing, to his papers.

-

Another hour later, Bentley appears in the hole in the wall.

“I’ve got some bad news,” he grumbles, gesturing for them to sit down in the main room. 

  “Rajan has gone into hiding somewhere in the temple. I guess the destruction of his satellite array and my invasion of his personal space to get the blueprints spooked him.” Clearing his throat, Bentley runs a hand over his smooth skull and continues. “To get at his half of the Clockwerk heart, we’ll need to draw him out into the open. Given Rajan’s spice addled temper, I’d recommend making him angry.”

 Bentley pauses, rubbing his eyes. “First, we’re going to destroy the centre of his operation- the spice grinder. Then, we’ll demolish the dam above the temple in an attempt to flood him out.”

 Sly and Murray don’t have to look at eachother to know that they’re both thinking the same thing- that Bentley, quiet, intellectual Bentley, is taking uncharacteristically aggressive measures.

 “If  _ that _ doesn’t work, I’ve made arrangements to exchange one of the temple’s bhasar rubies for some high explosives, which, if necessary, we can use to flood the temple’s whole grotto.”

 Bentley pauses, drumming his fingers on the table. “if my psychological profile of Rajan is correct, he  _ should  _ pick up the other half of the Clockwerk heart before making his escape. Effectively, bringing it to us.”

 Apparently finished, Bentley flicks off the projector and waits for their remarks.

 “Bentley,” Sly says slowly, “Is this really a good idea?”

 Murray stares down at the table top, focusing intently on the rotting grain of the wood.

 “What do you mean by that?” Bentley says, frustration coloring his tone. “Of course it is! How else do you suggest we get a hold of the heart?”

 Sly glances at Murray, who is staring so powerfully at the table he could bore a hole through it, and prepares to be the only one who will be calling Bentley out.

 “Well, what I mean is,” Sly begins, “That we’re in a very isolated area, and if any of this goes wrong, it could be a real problem.”

 “It won’t go wrong,” Bentley says firmly. “All my calculations are correct.”

 “But the temple is so old,” Sly presses. “What if the entire thing goes down with the dam?”

 “It won’t happen,” Bentley replies stiffly.

 “Well, what if Rajan doesn’t pick up the heart? We all know even if it gets lost in the wreckage, it won’t be destroyed. What’s to stop another Klaww Gang member picking it back up?”

 “It won’t happen!”

 “Bentley, I trust you –you know I do- but.. this is uncharacteristically… forceful. I mean, I know in Paris with Dimitri- that was destructive, but this isn’t smashing through a road, this is flooding an ancient, crumbling temple.” Sly pauses, glancing again at Murray, who is now tracing the wood grain with his finger. Turning back to Bentley, who is now a deep red, he tries once more. “Don’t you think it’d be a better idea if I went into the temple- do some more re-con, snoop around- I could pickpocket Rajan and be in and out, no problem-“

 “Will you just trust me?” Bentley explodes. “My entire role in this team is to plan these things! I know what I’m doing!”

 Sly falls silent, cowed. When he doesn’t say anything else, Bentley stands up and puts on his gear. 

  “I’ll be waiting for your signal after you destroy the spice room and return here. Then I’ll destroy the dam,” Bentley says coldly.

 “How? Your bombs aren't strong enough!”. 

 “A military grade helicopter outfitted with missiles has arrived across the river. I’ll boot it up, hijack it, and blow that dam to hell,” Bentley spits out, stalking out of the hideout. If there had been a door, Sly is sure he would have slammed it.

-

Murray and Sly sit in shocked silence; both of them completely unsure what to do now.

 “That could have gone better,” Sly says slowly to Murray. The hippo shrugs his burly shoulders helplessly, remaining silent. “Murray, I’m going to head to the spice room. Let me know if anything happens.”

 “You’ve got it buddy,” Murray promises, and Sly leaves, and that tiny little cave is suddenly so big and full of chill air.

-

Sly returns an hour later, smelling like spices and smoke and sniffling fiercely. He honks his nose into the handkerchief offered by Murray, and rubs his eyes.

 “Any word from Bentley?” Sly asks. Murray shakes his head. Sly exhales.

“Well, I better send the signal and boot up the commlink in case he needs us.”

 So Sly painstakingly plugs everything in like Bentley taught him, and puts on the headphones while Murray sits next to him, the only sound their own breathing. Sly hits the button which Bentley has designated as the “OK, GO” button, and a couple of minutes later, they hear a muffled explosion in the distance, and Murray rushes to the window.

 “Sly, he’s in the helicopter,” he say breathlessly; Sly looks past him out the window to see said helicopter slowly rising into the air, and then suddenly fly out of view.

 “Shit,” Sly says, fiddling with the comm link, but Bentley isn’t picking up. 

 “What’s wrong?” Murray asks, wringing his huge hands.

 “Bentley isn’t picking up,” Sly mutters. “I guess he really wants to be on his own out there.”

-

Bentley’s fingers are slick with sweat as he pulls the helicopter into a wild veer away from incoming missiles, blasting the wall at the same time. The helicopter won’t hold out for too much longer, but he’s nearly broken all the supporting struts of the dam wall; he’s almost done it.

 He’s aware of Sly trying to call him on the comm system, but he doesn’t want to hear Sly’s rebuking, his fear, his worry, his condescension. Bentley knows exactly what he’s doing, knows every inch of this machine and the dam. Sure enough, the a huge crack splits across the dam and chunks of stone fly out, water gushing into the ruins below. Bentley can’t even manage a grin of triumph- he’s still full of anger as he hovers overhead, so focused internally he doesn’t realised he’s wandered too close and a huge block of stone is hurtling towards the helicopter. The sudden crack and thud sends him veering wildly in circles as he struggles to get back in control, lights flashing and urgent beeping falling on deaf ears as the helicopter hurtles towards a nearby tower. He manages to jerk the helicopter out of it and roughly land on top, sending the roof flying and himself sprawling on the tiles next to the smoking mess. 

 Very glad to be alive, Bentley lays there wheezing for a couple of minutes, before sitting himself down and assessing the damage. The helicopter won’t fly again, but the mounted turret is still operational- a useful thing to have up their proverbial sleeve.

His own wounds are superficial, some nasty grazes and bruises but nothing too serious. His comm is nonstop buzzing and he finally picks it up and answers it:

 “I’m fine, and I’ll be back shortly,” he says tonelessly, hanging up. 

-

Bentley limps back into the main room and doesn’t look at either of them. Murray has no idea what to do. Sly glances at Murray, and shrugs.

 “I’m going to go out and get some more water to purify,” Sly says after a couple of seconds to Murray, and picks up their waterskin. Leaving the cave is, frankly, a blessing; suddenly he feels more at ease, away from that charge in the air. Bentley has never been one to act so foolhardedly, so disregarding and angry. Sly racks his brains for some explanation, but finds nothing to explain why Bentley has become increasingly more surly across the past few months, as if everything and everyone is an annoyance. Sly worries, because Bentley is what holds them together, gives the team direction, a  _ plan _ . 

 He crouches by the river, and fills up the waterskins, and even as he straightens the hair on his neck rises and he looks up.

 “Cooper. We meet again.”

 Dressed for the humidity in shorts and a t-shirt, Neyla looks at him. Her face might be fixed in an innocent smile of surprise, but the tense of her body says a huntress has found her prey.

 “Constable Neyla,” he says, doffing his cap. “Thanks for not ratting me out back at the ball.”

 “Oh, I should be thanking  _ you _ ,” she purrs, running manicured claws along the side of her face. “The look on Carmelita’s face was  _ priceless _ .”

 Inwardly, he grimaces in guilt, but his voice remains light. “She took it hard, huh?”

 “No-one likes to have their affections played with, Sly,” she murmurs, and the way she looks up at him in the dusk is devastating.

 “I know I certainly don’t,” he manages, and then, mindlessly- “Look Neyla, as soon as this India job is over, why don’t you and I go out on the town? We’ll dance through Bollywood and eat curry all night long.”

 She looks him up and down hungrily, and tilts his chin up. “I’ll keep it in mind,” she says, breath ghosting along his face, and then abruptly withdraws her fingers, turning serious. “But first- the task at hand. I’ve learned of a secret entrance leading to half of the Clockwork heart. Legally, I can’t enter the place without a warrant- but a thief like you…”

 He grins. “A thief like  _ me _ can go wherever he pleases. I read you.”

 “Don’t fall behind while I lead you- this place is  _ thick _ with guards, and standing still would likely prove lethal.”

 And she’s off with a start, leaving him to fumble with clicking the waterskins back on his belt before chasing after her. She leads him through trees and crumbled ruins, pulling a well cared whip from her belt to snap at several unfortunate guards who see her. The  _ crack _ is borderline erotic, and Sly barely has time to be embarrassed- Neyla is moving fast and stealthy, and Sly  _ needs _ something to bring back besides some dirty water to smooth things over with Bentley. As his calves begin to burn, the bitter tone of Bentley’s voice keeps him going until finally- thankfully- Neyla stops in front of a well camouflaged door.

 “This is it. And remember- if push comes to shove, I  _ never _ showed you this door.” She pauses, tapping the whip against her chin thoughtfully. “And…”

 “And?”

 “We’re on for that date in Bollywood,” she says slyly, running the coiled whip teasingly down his chest. He shivers, and before he can say anything, she’s gone into the shadows.

-

Murray has no idea what to say to Bentley, as the turtle sits in his own personal black thundercloud, each finger against the keyboard a damning gunshot. When Sly comes back sweaty, waterskins in hand, with a grin, Murray relaxes.

 “I’ve got good news,” Sly announced. “I’ve got a way into the second half of the Clockwerk heart.”

 Bentley swings around. “What?”

“I ran into Neyla-”

“Sly! Neyla is  _ not _ our friend!”

 Sly deflates. “Bentley- I know she’s a cop but she wants Rajan taken down as much as we do. The enemy of my enemy, right?”

 Murray is certain if Bentley had hair, the turtle would be tearing it out, and he tries- “Bentley, I think Sly is right. I mean, Neyla was right about India in Monaco-”

 Murray stops himself, horrified, and is abruptly aware Sly has fallen still.

 “ _ What? _ ” Bentley says slowly. “What do you mean?”

 Murray looks at Sly, who is frozen. “I- I-”

 “I ran into Neyla at Monaco,” Sly says quietly.

 “You  _ what?” _ Bentley splutters, turning red. “ _ You ran into a cop who knew we were there and didn’t think to tell me?” _

 “It was fine, Bentley- she just implied we should go to India, and by the time I got around to telling you that, you had already figured it out, and-”

_“_ She is a _cop,_ Sly! I know you can’t keep it in your pants for a woman with handcuffs, but didn’t you _think_? Neyla may have helped us a couple of times, but we _can not_ trust her! And how could you not _tell_ me this? I’m the _planner_ in this team, I can’t _punch_ , or _climb,_ all I can do is _plan_ , and how can I plan when you continue to deem it fit to not tell me _essential pieces of information!_ ” Bentley is yelling, spitting, and Sly shrinks from him into Murray’s side. Murray is speechless. None of them say anything for a long time, and Bentley takes a long, _long_ breath in, and his voice is tired.

 “Where is the entrance?”

 “Bentley, I-”

 “The  _ entrance _ , Sly.”

 Sly tells him, and Bentley marks it on the map.

 “Go check it out,” Bentley says with the exhaustion of an old, old man, and Sly does, leaving Murray and Bentley alone together.

-

The heart suspended over the room is eerie, Sly thinks, each mechanical segment contracting with supernatural violence, every pump echoed loud and frenzied. Bentley’s instructions are short, clipped, cool. He sneaks about the room, slipping the keys from the guard’s pockets. There’s nowhere to hide, and every movement Sly makes is careful, silent. He can’t spare thought for his guilt and shame, which is a relief, in its own way. Slotting the keys into the panel, he turns the knob a little faster and the heart abruptly slams onto the floor, sending out a concussion wave of energy  that blows Sly into the wall. He lays there, gasping, his heart racing as his ears stop ringing and his vision settles. Finally, after a couple of minutes, he gets up. Half the guards have been knocked out, the other half having been blasted to the floor below, dazed, and he pulls the heart up, slipping it into his bag. It’s big but light- mostly hollow, he guesses- and he hightails it the hell out of there.

-

Murray stares at the heart  on the table. It’s as big as his torso, and menacing in its stillness. To think that this was it- this powered the creature that destroyed Sly’s family, one by one throughout history- is sobering, and he finds his usual bravado withered away.

 Sly and Bentley are having a toneless discussion, and Sly leaves to the next job. Bentley comes up behind him, and joins him in silence, looking at that damning creation.

 After a couple of minutes, the turtle turns to Murray. “We’ll need your muscle to get the ruby to the buyers, Murray. You better go meet Sly up at the temple.”

 Bentley’s eyes are cool, and Murray swallows. “Bentley, we didn’t mean to hide anything from you- it’s just-”

 “You better head out now, while the guards are in rotation,” Bentley mutters, and Murray looks down, his body heavy with guilt, and he leaves the cave. Creeping through the jungle, he meets up with Sly, who is covered in dirt and looking exhausted, leaning on the cane. The ruby- bigger than Murray’s head- sits next to him.

  “You okay, buddy?” Sly asks with a weary smile. 

  “I guess,” Murray says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I feel real bad, Sly. I’ve never seen Bentley so angry.”

  “I should have told him the moment I saw her back in that casino,” Sly sighs. “I just- I trust Neyla, I wish he’d get that.”

 “He’s been so… cranky lately. I’m worried about him. He keeps the group together, Sly,” Murray says, guilt and urgency creeping into his voice. “We need to make this up to him.”

 “ _ I _ need to make this up to him, Murray,” Sly says, laying a hand on Murray’s shoulder. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

 Murray opens and then closes his mouth. 

 “C’mon,” Sly says. “Let’s go sell this thing.”

 Sly creeps ahead of Murray, giving him the all clear as they creep to the first meeting point near the waterfall. Murray holds the ruby so delicately consciously aware of every step he takes.

 A figure in a thick, dark rain coat waits for them, face shadowed. Murray thinks there may be a jaguar beneath that hood, but can’t be certain. 

 “Are you Vihaan?” Sly says in English. 

 The figure nods. “A pleasure to meet you, Sly Cooper,” he says, voice thickly accented. “Do you have the ruby?”

 Murray steps out from behind the cover of a nearby tree, the ruby in hand.

 “Not even a bag?” the figure says dryly to Sly, who gives him a look. “Bag costs extra, buddy,” he jokes. “We’ve had a long day.”

 Murray passes it to Vihaan, who takes it with deep black paws. “This ruby is flawless,” he says, holding a small magnifiying tool up against it. “Mm. You have held your end of the bargain.” He hands it back to Murray. “Take it to the buyer, and we will complete the contract.”

 The figure sinks into the trees, and Sly takes the lead once more. Murray watches his friend, tiredness so evident in every step, guilt on his shoulders.

 “What can we even say to Bentley?” Murray asks. 

 Sly’s shoulders droop even more. “I don’t know, Murray.”

 They creep on in silence, and come to the final meeting point.

 This time, they are first to arrive. Sly glances around, wary, and another figure, this time in a deep blue raincoat, drops down from a nearby tree. Murray yelps and Sly bares his teeth in shock, both of them tensed and ready for battle.

 “I must say, the Cooper Gang lives up to its reputation,” the figure says. “But where is your third member?”

 “Around,” Sly says airily, but Murray can see his shoulders tense. 

 “Well, you can tell the turtle we will provide the Cherrybomb 500 at the time he requests.” The figure extends a hand. “The ruby, please, hippo.”

 Sly nods, and Murray passes it to the figure, who examines it and nods.

 “Yes, this is perfect. Many thanks, Cooper. We will be in touch.”

The figure sinks into the jungle gloom, and they head back to the safehouse.

 -

The heist discussion is devoid of the usual excitement, anticipation. Bentley’s voice is clipped, matter of fact.

 “Partial flooding didn’t work. Blowing up the temple’s mouth will flood the grotto- and flush Rajan out for once and for all. I’ll be covering Murray from the helicopter’s gun turret, while he pries the mouth open. Sly, you’ll take the Cherrybomb up to the open mouth, and then you’ll both need to get to high ground as fast as possible. Murray, the moment Rajan comes out, you need to jump him, snag his half of the heart,  and we meet up back at the cliff and get the hell out of this goddamn jungle. Questions?”

 Sly and Murray glance at eachother. It’s a very practical plan, and they can’t think of any questions to ask. When it’s apparent no-one is going to raise their hand, Bentley clears his throat.

 “We’ll start tonight. This is going to be a very quick in and out, easy operation. No flair, no fun. Every moment we stay here increases our risk of Rajan discovering us. I suggest we rest in preparation for the mission. I’ll see you both in a couple of hours.”

 “Bentley,” Sly starts, but when Bentley looks at him, he doesn’t know what to say. The turtle turns his head back, and goes into the other room to lay down on his bed roll.

 “I’m going to meditate,” Sly says to Murray. “I can’t possibly sleep.”

 “I’ll join you,” Murray offers.

 In the next room, Bentley grits his teeth, and closes his eyes tighter.

-

The alarm goes off at nine, and they all clamber to action, strapping gear on and heading out. Sly takes to the trees, heading towards the drop off point for the Cherrybomb, and Murray and Bentley head towards the turret tower.

 The silence is thick, awkward, and Murray can’t think of anything to say. Bentley refuses to meet his eyes, and when they arrive at the tower, all Bentley says is “I’ll cover you,” and turns to climb up the broken staircase.

 “Bentley,” Murray says. Bentley stops, but doesn’t look at him. 

 “Let’s just get this done,” Bentley says, and disappears into the tower.

-

Sly pulls away foliage to find a box of explosives, neatly camouflaged. He whistles under his breath, and takes out the decievingly small Cherrybomb. He’s just strapping it to his back when Rajan’s voice screams out against the silence;

“ _ The temple is under assault!” _

 Suddenly gunfire starts up- Bentley, he assumes- and Sly tightens the straps, face grim, and heads off to the temple.

 Guards are practically stampeding towards the place, and Sly is forced to take last second dives for cover several times. When he gets there, several guards litter the area, unconscious from deftly aimed rubber bullets. Sly is impressed- he would never have expected Bentley to have such good aim. 

 He meets Murray at the entrance mouth. The hippo is stretching his arms, looking exhausted but cheerful. Sly feels a smile tug at his face for the first time all day.

 He unloads the explosives, and sets up the detonation timer, nodding to Murray. The two of them sprint out of the grotto, onto the bridge, and wait. 

 The explosion is deceptive- they can barely hear and see it, but the sudden flood of gushing water that fills up the grotto in mere moments is astonishing.

 Rajan finally, finally emerges from the highest door, yelling bloody murder, clawing to the very top of the temple.

 “ _ My spice temple! _ ” he screams. “ _ Face me like a man, Cooper! With Clockwerk’s black heart, I will show you  _ true _ power!” _

 “Boy, when we try to tick someone off, we  _ really _ tick them off.,” Sly mumbles, as they both watch the tiger roar and scream from his high up perch.

  “Yes,” comes a sultry voice, and both Murray and Sly whip around in surprise. “You do seem to have quite a talent for it,” Neyla continues, whip in hand, grinning.

 “Constable Neyla? Slumming it with the thieves again?” Sly teases.

 “That man is an illegal spice trader,” she says, staring up at the furious tiger. “He should be brought to justice.”

 “All we want is the Clockwerk heart,” Sly tells her. “You help us take him down, and the bust is yours.”

 “Just try to keep up,” she says, and Sly looks at Murray reassuringly before joining her up on the bridge roof in a single, deft bound.

 Murray waits, and feels very, very small.

-

Whoever gave Dmitri that power ring clearly fixed the heart to Rajan’s staff, Sly thinks, as he hops over the tall posts, narrowly dodging lethal bolts of energy. The tiger is unpredictable in his fury, and more than twice Sly feels his fur singe as he barely avoids getting struck by lightning. 

 He and Neyla land in perfect timing on the rooftop edge, just below Rajan, and they share a single glance. Sly grins, fur raised in anticipation, and readies his staff.

 “Neyla,  _ now, _ ” he says, and springs up to Rajan’s level, ready for the two of them to take him. Rajan is stunned by his audacity, but as Sly looks to Neyla for support, for confirmation, she isn’t there- she’s back on the lip of the roof, those eyes delighted, those lips in a lazy grin.

 “Sorry,” Neyla says, not sounding sorry at all, and leaps into the jungle below them.

 “What-” Sly starts, but then Rajan swings his staff ferociously, viciously, crackling with energy, and the last thing Sly thinks of is Murray and Bentley, before pain overtakes him and his body flies across the grotto.

-

Murray roars as Sly’s unconscious, battered body soars into grotto below them.

 He can’t even speak, as he scrambles down, searching for his friend. Sly lies half in, half out of water, fur charred, blood leaking from his mouth, draped across a thick green lilypad. 

 Half sobbing, half uttering into his mic, “ _ Bentley, what do we do, Bentley, please,”  _ he reaches for his friend but Rajan is there, fur drenched, roaring, furious, and knocks him back.

 “Is this it?” The tiger seethes. “ _ This _ is the Cooper Gang I’ve heard so much about, and feared these long hours?”

 “The Murray will renew your fear,” Murray manages, bringing his aching arms up in fists, shaking slightly.

 “Who’s ‘The Murray’?” Rajan sneers, levelling that violent looking stafff at Murray. “All I see before me is a  _ fat, pathetic, weakling. _ ”

 Murray wavers, but tries to hold his ground, even as those words- words he constantly tries not to think himself- hit him in the breastbone, echoing through his body.

 “I might be big,” he says, “and not as smart as the other guys- but the one thing I’m not, is  _ weak. _ ”

 And he deals Rajan a solid uppercut to the face, sending the tiger sprawling across the ankle level water. The tiger snarls, clawing back to his feet, and deals Murray a strike across the midsection, sending Murray flying against the grotto wall. Other guards drop into the grotto, clinging to Murray, who manages to shake them off and duck a savage swing from Rajan.

 He has no idea where Bentley is, what Bentley is doing, but all he can focus on is the one thing he pride’s himself on- his skills as a fighter.  

 Rajan is strong, but has no training, and this is the one thing that keeps Murray safe, as his long honed reflexes kick in for him, as he spits out blood and several of his ribs fracture, his snout breaks. He looks bad, but Rajan is worse- with no stamina, only power and rage, the tiger’s blows are unwieldy, and after careful watching, Murray manages to dart in and deal a tidy but powerful blow to Rajan’s chin, knocking the tiger’s brain against his skull, and sending him into a dead faint. Murray spits out a tooth, and rips the staff from the tiger’s limp fingers, pulling the heart off the wood with brute strength, ripping the skin in several places over his fingers in the process.

 Murray heaves, wipes the blood from his eyes, and drags himself to Sly’s side.

 “Sly- buddy, are you ok?” he tries, but the racoon isn’t answering, and Murray casts his eyes for some sort of ladder, a foot hold-

 “Happy day,” Neyla chuckles, looking down at them from the top of the grotto pit.

 “Neyla!” Murray says in relief. “Throw down a ladder or something, Sly’s hurt real bad- I think he might be bleeding internally-”

 “Here they are, Contessa,” Neyla says, and Murray shrinks back as the Contessa herself comes into view, her terrible red eyes cold. “The Cooper Gang and Rajan incapacitated, just as I promised.”

 Carmelita appears as well, staring at Sly’s limp body. 

“Excellent work, Constable Neyla,” the Contessa says, impassively glancing at them. “Carmelita here has never managed to catch Sly Cooper, let alone his colleagues and a Klaww Gang member, and in only a few short weeks!”

 “Well  _ I _ never-” Carmelita says, but the Contessa rolls her eyes.

 “Really, Carmelita,” she says. “Accept your defeat gracefully.”

 “Actually,” Neyla says, “There’s a good reason she’s never managed it. The Inspector was in league with them the entire time.”

 Murray gapes, and Carmelita hisses.

 “Liar!” the fox cries. “Prove it!”

 Murray watches Neyla pull out a photo- he can’t see what it is, but Carmelita hisses again. “This is a photo of Inspector Fox dancing with Sly Cooper  _ on the night _ , _ at the very moment the wings were stolen. _ ”

 “I didn’t know I was dancing with  _ Cooper _ ,” Carmelita spits.

 “You certainly seem very familiar in this picture,” The Contessa says suspiciously, examining the photo, and then drawing out a handgun. Murray flinches and Carmelita freezes. “I’m sorry, Inspector, but this is too much. I’m placing you under arrest for suspicion of assisting in theft, among several other crimes.”

 “What are you doing?” Carmelita says, as Neyla forcefully cuffs her. “You’re going completely off procedure-  _ what are you doing _ ?”

 Neyla forces her to her knees, and whispers something that Murray can’t hear. Carmelita hisses, but remains there, and the Contessa casts a contemptuous glance at Murray.

 “Send the officers down and fetch them,” she says, almost bored, and ice drills its way into Murray’s bones. 

-

Bentley sits frozen, unable to move, as he watches Neyla cuff Murray, as Sly is flung into a stretcher.

 For the first time in his life, he has no plan. He waits for the officers to come for him, but they don’t, and the tiniest shred of hope fills his body.

_ They don’t know he’s here _ .

After all, no-one ever sees Bentley in the field, do they? They don’t know he exists. Just earlier today, this would have made him furious, but now he sits in the tower, thinking, thinking, thinking.

 Finally, he climbs down, sneaks back to the hideout, and packs up all the gear he can carry- his laptop, his bombs, his bed roll, everything he can drag, straps it to his shell, and sets off towards the van.

 Thank God Sly taught him to navigate, Bentley thinks, hacking his way through the jungle. Every moment his muscles grow tighter, until he thinks he’s going to have a heart attack, every nerve in his body screaming. It takes him two days to get to the van like this, every rustle in the trees a hunter, the cops,  _ something _ out to get him. Several times he has to sit down, overwhelmed by silence and fear. When he finally reaches the van, he locks himself inside it just sits there, struck by how big the van is, how empty it is with Sly and Murray. 

 “Keep it together, Wizard,” he tells himself, and straps their gear down, climbing through into the driver’s seat. He gingerly places his hands on the wheel, and stares out into the empty road for a very long time.

 He can track Sly and Murray easily, he isn’t worried about that. He’s more worried about how the  _ hell _ he’s going to break them out. 

 One thing at a time, he tells himself, and turns the van on, and then swears, punching the wheel:

 He has no idea how to drive shift.


	7. interlude: behind bars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a cold and rough ride to prague.

Sly wakes up with a jolt as the transport van goes over another pothole, remnants of the old dream of fire and metal wings still chasing his pulse. His wrists ache, and his tongue feels like sandpaper, but that’s nothing compared to the several broken ribs still healing up. He takes slow breaths, grimacing as he once again distances himself from the pain.

 “Sly,” Murray whispers from the other corner, his bulk chained up and pinned. “You ok?”

 Sly weakly gives a thumbs up. Carmelita, who is sitting with both arms handcuffed behind her back, gagged, strains to look at him out of the corner of her eye. He stares at her, at how there's chafing from where the rough fabric scrapes against her cheeks, the savage looking bruise spreading on her cheekbone, and feels ill.

 “They gagged her a couple of hours ago,” Murray whispers when he sees Sly’s horror. “I think she tried to knock one of them out when they took her out to pee.”

 Carmelita manages to turn her head and look at Sly straight in the eye, those brown eyes furious.

Murray continues quietly. “I heard one of the guys up front say something about Prague-”

 Carmelita thrashes in her seat at this, and Sly tries to sit up a little.

 “Carmelita’s really worried about where they’re taking us,” Murray says after Carmelita exhausts herself. “I think they’re going against protocol again, I can’t make out what she’s saying through the gag very well.”

 “Guess we’re getting the special treatment,” Sly manages with a little smile, straining his arms.

 “ _ Quiet down back there!” _ The driver yells through the safety mesh, and Murray looks cowed. 

 Sly finally gets himself upright, panting. His feet are cuffed and so are his wrists, but with his injury they didn’t cuff his hands behind his back- a rookie mistake, but one he’s thankful for.

 They’re all stripped down to prison jumpsuits, and he has no idea where his cane and satchel are- long confiscated back in India. It’s been a week now and he’s refusing to panic, but he is getting a little… tense.

 Somehow, they seem to have neglected the fact that Bentley is still alive and around. Any moment now, he tells himself, the van is going to explode and Bentley is going to rescue them.

 “Carmelita,” he whispers. “I know you don't like it, but we have to work together whether you like it or not.”

She growls and very deliberately turns her head away.

 “Carmelita, be reasonable-”

 “ _ Quiet down back there!”  _ one of the apes yells, and Sly falls silent. Carmelita’s lip curls and she struggles with her bonds for a couple of seconds before slumping against the van again.

 She stares at Sly with the look of someone thinking very hard and very angrily.

 “We’ve stopped,” Murray mouths, and the doors are flung open. They all squint in the sudden dreary, grey glare.

 “Out,” one of the guards orders.

 Sly raises an eyebrow. “We’re kinda cuffed up, buddy.”

 The ape reddens and roughly shoulders his way into the van, uncuffing Sly’s ankles from the seat and shoving him out. Sly coughs at the sharp pain in his chest, gasping. One of the guards grabs him by the shoulders, and Carmelita follows shortly after, looking furious. It takes them a couple of minutes to fully unshackle and reshackle Murray so he can walk, and then they shackle all of them back together.

They're clearly in Prague- the gothic architecture and overcast sky says it all. A tiny, ramshackle little town with a train line that looks, he notes, out of place in its modernity. 

 Murray is at the front of the line, and Sly at the back: when he isn't searching searching  _ searching _ for a flash of green shell, he stares at the back of Carmelita’s head, her deep blue hair knotted and tied into a strict bun, trying to think how he can get her to work with them. They trek through streets too narrow for a car and come to a train station. The place is crackling with static electricity. The guard at the front swipes a keycard into a nondescript terminal and keys in a five digit code which Sly can't make out, much to his disappointment.

 “I love public transport,” Sly says to the guard behind him. “But this looks even better. Very efficient. Can't believe we get our own train..”

 The guard ignores him.

  “I hear you guys are going against Interpol policy,” Sly continues cheerily.

  “Shut up,” the guard grunts.

  “That doesn't bother you at all?”

  “I said  _ shut up _ ,” the guard spits, cuffing him around the head. It hurts, but not very much.

  “I’m doing whatever the spider tells me,” the guard walking along side them mutters. “It’ll be worse than prison if she gets a hold of us.”

_ Interesting _ , Sly thinks. through the mild head ache.

  “So, where are we going?” He asks that guard, who looks startled and answers out of reflex:

 “The Contessa’s private hypnotherapy facility,” he says.

 “Shut the fuck  _ up _ , George,” the guard directly behind Sly says in exasperation. “Just give ‘em the fuckin’ keys to the facility why don’t you!”

 A train slides up to the station and the three of them get marched onto the gleaming interior and crammed onto the hard plastic seats in between the guards.

 Sly has a close look at their weapons- all fatal, all expensive.

 He looks at Carmelita who is doing the same. She stares at him.

 “Can't you ungag her?” Sly asks the guards.

 The guard next to Murray snorts. 

 “Look at her,” he continues pleadingly, “She's sitting so nice and quietly.”

 “She wasn't when she roundhoused Brad in the dick,” George mutters. Sly gives a startled laugh, and Carmelita snarls through the gag.

 “Shut up, dumpster diver,” the other guard says, and doesn't  _ that  _ take Sly back to his orphanage days.

 “Very original,” Sly says dryly. “I’ve never heard  _ that _ racial slur before. Let me guess- because raccoons dig in trash?”

 “Don't, Sly,” Murray says quietly, and Sly immediately falls quiet, seeing the very real terror on Murray’s face.

 It takes them all of two minutes before they're off again, now directly in a gothic and frankly terrifyingly archaic looking facility. Sly can't help but notice the high tech outfitting, how beneath the gothic aesthetic everything is up to date. They enter a dimly lit office, and then they're ushered into a padded room, and left there. 

 “Do you want me to take the gag off?” Sly immediately asks Carmelita.

 She looks at him warily, but nods.

 Sly immediately goes to her. He badly wants to touch her face, to reassure her, but doesn't; it would be grossly abusing her current predicament. Instead, he awkwardly tugs her gag down..

 She spits on the floor. 

 “ _ Assholes,” _ she spits in gorgeous, gorgeous French. And then she kicks him in the stomach: he collapses in pain.

 “That's for India,,” she hisses at him.

 “Noted,” he coughs, clutching his ribs. Even in his pain, he can't help but grin.

 “The Contessa can not  _ possibly _ think I am guilty,” she rages. “How can she believe that I  _ ever _ consorted with you?”

 “Hey, now,” he says, mock hurt. “Don't tell me that dance meant nothing?”

 “Shut up, Ringtail,” she spits. “Don't make me break another rib.”

 She begins pacing the room, furious. Sly examines the room. There's no two way mirror, or even chairs. The walls are plain and white and if there are any cameras or microphones, they're well hidden; Sly desperately wants to speak to Murray about Bentley, but doesn't dare. Murray, unable to do much more than waddle awkwardly in his chains, stands there looking terrified.

 Sly shuffles over to him. “It's gonna be okay, pal,” he murmurs reassuringly. Unable to pat Murray’s shoulder, he bumps him affectionately. “Even if it takes us a while, you know, that old story about the  _ turtle  _ and the hare and all that,” Sly tries, and Murray looks at him, about to say something, but Sly shakes his head deliberately.

 The door slides back open and several guards file into the room, all holding ugly looking weapons.

 “We’re taking you to your cells,” the biggest one says firmly. “Hippo, you're with us. We’ll come back for you two shortly.”

 As soon as they leave, Carmelita spits at the door.

 “Again, entirely against procedure,” she mutters. 

 “Isn't that a good thing?” Sly asks. “None of this would hold up in a court of law.”

 “I wasn’t talking to you,” she sneers. “ _ You _ deserve to be in jail.”

 “For stealing dangerous artefacts from criminals who would misuse them?” Sly debates half heartedly. He knows this isn't getting anywhere but if she would think, step out of her black and white mindset-

 “Enough,” she commands. “I refuse to debate law and ethics with a known criminal.”

 Sly shrugs, and turns his eyes back to examining the room. Seconds turn into minutes.

 “I wonder why Neyla lied,” Sly muses, stretching and testing his ribs. “I mean, I know she's a cop, but I got the impression she kinda liked me.”

 “She's an unethical,  _ lying-”  _ Carmelita stops herself and takes a deep breath.

 “I mean, the  _ flirting _ ,” Sly continues, and unexpected bitterness leaks into his voice. “Seems a bit much to me, between giving us keys to buildings, chasing me down just to chat in Monaco-”

 “She did  _ what?”  _ Carmelita exclaims.

 “I  _ am _ a relatively attractive mammal you know.”

 “Don't flatter yourself,” she snaps. “She gave you  _ keys?” _

__ “Sure did,” Sly says. “Clearly a plot to get our trust  _ and _ bag the criminal. Talk about two birds, one stone.”

 “ _ That’s _ how she was two steps ahead of me,” Carmelita mutters. 

 “Don't feel too bad,” he says, a little embarrassed at his own bitterness. “She was very… persuasive.”

 “This must all be a ploy to climb the ladder,” Carmelita says, trembling with anger. “My career, ruined, all because some upstart graduate wants extra dental benefits and a parking space.”

 “I never thought she would drag you into this,” he says suddenly. Carmelita doesn't even seem to hear him, but he's consumed with a rare emotion- guilt. How could he ever have trusted her? How could he have ignored his feelings for Carmelita and actively sought out someone who undermined her at every turn? “I never would have gone along with it if I knew she had planned to frame you.”

 She looks at him and before she puts on her cold,  _ dealing with a criminal  _ face, it looks like she believes him.

 The door swings open and several different guards file back in.

 “Taking you to the women’s ward,” one of them grunts to Carmelita, and pulls her out of the room. “Back for you shortly, raccoon.”

 The door slams back shut and Sly stares at the spot where Carmelita just was, and feels very alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys so much for your patience and so much for the lovely comments!! sorry this took so long- between travel, work and study i finally managed to fart this one out. hopefully the next one won't take too long- I'm really keen for the next chapter.


	8. Jailbreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> forecast: thunderstorms and darkness

Murray lies on his bed and stares at the wall. The rat and dog in the cell block snore, and he is trying not to cry, he’s already been weak enough,  _ shut up Murray, _ and he clenches his fists with his own determination and swallows the hot coal in his throat.

_ Don't be a stupid baby,  _ he scolds himself. This is all his fault. He should have been able to one hit K.O Rajan, take Sly and escape, and instead he couldn't even manage to climb up a rope ladder without several cops holding onto it. Stupid, fat, useless Murray. 

 He stares at the wall some more.

 Life in prison is boring. He barely has enough time to do his workout routine in the yard and they spend the rest of the time doing mandated chores and sleeping and that's it.

 He's barely gotten a glimpse of Sly, and no word of Bentley, and the Contessa wants to see him tomorrow even though they only had an appointment two days ago and the thought of having to face her makes him ill. Spiders are such a rare race, and Murray’s only experience with them is their unevolved cousins, the common house spider, hundreds of which lurked in the orphanage at any given time and took pleasure in crawling across Murray in the early hours. He knows it's an unfounded fear, tinged by years of ghost stories with racist undertones, but considering Sly’s told him the Contessa is directly going against legal procedure, it's hard to feel guilt in a thick layer of fear, especially with their sessions. He can never remember them, but he always wakes up the next day feeling sore, and ashamed, and  _ weak _ . He hasn’t seen Sly since the first week, and he’s heard whispers his friend has been thrown into solitary, that he’ll rot there. 

 It's been a month now, the muscle turning to fat, and Murray feels more and more helpless with every passing day.

 He’s so, so tired.

-

It’s Sly’s second stay in the Hole, as he hunkers in the cold, cold darkness, shivering cheerfully. Truthfully, he doesn’t mind solitary so much; most of the inmates are either thugs, or too far gone to be good conversation, and the Contessa makes sure he never gets to see Murray. The only thing that bothers him about it is if now, if Bentley rolls up over the dusty stone horizon, it’ll be that much harder to get out.

 Sly shifts into a crouch, pressing his eyes against the gloomy sun that eases through the slit in the Hole’s door. Judging from the light, it’s about two in the afternoon. He estimates by the next afternoon, they’ll let him back on the proviso he stops aggravating Terry, a furious bat who is one fruit short of a basket. He also has Terry to thank for the plum-like bruise on his cheekbone, bless him. Amongst all the other injuries the Contessa’s favourite therapist, Drummond, a Scottish dog with a socipathic love of electricity has inflicted on him, it’s a gentle kiss in the scheme of things. Sly can’t exactly say he enjoys the sessions, but he’s a good actor; he says all the things Drummond wants to hear, and screams in pain at the right moment, and gets off lightly. In some sick way, the sessions are distracting him from his recurring nightmares of fire and Clockwerk; there’s that, at least. Distracts him from the thought that somewhere in this hell hole, Carmelita is alone.

 He’s worried about Murray too; Terry had mentioned something off hand, about his “pink, fat, idiot friend” and his daily sessions with the spider. Murray may be tougher than Sly physically, but Sly knows Murray’s newly found self-confidence isn’t strong yet, and in the wake of their defeat, it’s liable to be more vulnerable than ever. He’s worried Murray is giving up, succumbing to the Contessa. 

All he can do is wait, and watch. Bentley will need all the inside knowledge he can get. 

 It’s a shame, really, he thinks, warming his fingers in that tiny strap of sunlight. If it weren’t for the weekly electroshocking and the bad weather, it could  _ almost _ be a vacation. 

-

Everything about Prague is unwelcoming. The architecture, the weather, the smells, the sights and the people. It’s all extremely cold, and as a cold-blooded creature, Bentley’s rugged up and grumpy.

 It’s been two months now, two months of carefully making his way from country to country, of brutal hacking and quiet, shivery nights in the van. His glasses are cracked, he’s lost ten pounds, and he really misses Murray’s homemade spaghetti and meatballs with not enough pepper and Sly’s strawberry-orange juices that cost entirely too much per ounce.

 The Contessa’s absurdly suspicious, unmarked “rehabilitation centre” is out in a tiny country village on the edge of Prague. The town seems to have actually been built around the facility to house the guards. He parks the van in the thicket of trees on the edge of the lake, and gets to work.

 First, he has to make his way to the Contessa’s house and bug it. Easy enough, he tells himself forcefully, and begins surreptitiously making his way through the town. It’s essentially abandoned, all its inhabitants at work inside the huge walls he can see from the edge. There are a few stray guards, but avoiding them is easy enough. He takes in everything his hacking couldn’t tell him; how the train system is brand new, the computer stations sprinkled along the lines; the statues and the old bridge. Each step he takes fills in his mental map of the place.

 It stinks of negligence, he thinks, compared to those giant walls.

 The Contessa’s house is, of course, heavily guarded; eagles lurk around it, and even from here he can see several traps placed along the perimeter. 

 But Bentley has a new found confidence after two months of being on his own, and even if he shakes a little, his knees hold firm; he waits and watches the guards’ movements, and sprints across onto the outside staircase as they both pass behind the house for approximately five seconds, clearing the upper story as they round back. 

 He creeps around more traps, and takes shelter beneath the little gazebo structure on the top, taking a couple of seconds to breathe. His assumptions about the Contessa were right; the woman, educated as she is, is near the end of her fifties now and is one of the people from her generation who either can not, or do not believe in using more advanced technologies- such as a quality surveillance/alarm system.

Once his heart rate slows, he takes out the bugging device he’s put together, fixing it to the television antenna. It’s as innocuous as a screw, and splices into the network cable. He sets it up with his binocucom, and now the television is a rewired microphone even when turned off.

 He silently congratulates himself, and takes off back to the van while the guards change over.

 He’s just taking a bite into his lunch when a burst of noise comes from the speakers he’s connected to feedback from the Contessa’s house.

 “-  _ Klaww Gang is falling apart. The spice shipments have all but stopped. I would never have joined if it was going to be this easy to topple it _ .”

 Bentley listens intently, mouth open in shock, the sandwich sitting half chewed in his mouth. The Contessa, oddly enough, is speaking accented English. A younger man’s voice with a Scottish brogue replies. 

 “ _ Isn’t this for the best though, ma’am? The sooner we topple the Gang and show Interpol that Cooper is cured, the sooner they sends the grant for the facility in England _ -”

“ _ Don’t get me started on those fools at Interpol, _ ” she says dismissively. “ _ They keep sending me criminals and I keep making money. The police will never see a single Euro of the treasure troves those idiots stole, so long as I get a hold of them first. Speaking of which- how goes it with Cooper? _ ”

 “ _ Slow. _ ” The voice sounds frustrated. “ _ His low pain tolerance is infuriating, he passes out whenever I hit a hundred volts. If you give me more time, maybe some spices- _ ”

 “ _ We’re running out of time- and more importantly, out of spices. Cooper’s mind is too strong to be influenced by the spices we can spare, _ ” the Contessa snaps, but when she speaks again, her voice is calmer. “ _ It is no matter. The hippo is close to breaking; we will focus all our remaining stock on converting him. I can only imagine the wealth they will have accumulated. We can buy all the spice we need.” _

 “ _ But what if the hippo doesn’t know anything _ ?” the Scottish voice is probing now. “ _ You said Interpol still doesn’t know who does their accounts-”  _

“ _ There’s been rumors of who the third member is _ ,” the Contessa muses. “ _ Put Cooper in the hole for two months- rip him out of bed at midnight, halve his food. If the hippo doesn’t break by then, the racoon will be ready to talk, I guarantee it. _ ” 

The two of them seem to leave the room after that, their next words too quiet to hear. Bentley stares at the speakers, the sandwich ash in his mouth.

 “Fuck,” he says through a chewed up mouthful of cheese and sourdough, scrambling for his laptop. 

 He’s got a train to catch.

-

_ Poor, weak Murray _ , the Contessa croons to him through the haze.  _ Tell me more about your mother. _

 She died when I was very young, he tries to say. But instead, out of his mouth comes,  _ I was fat, and weak, and she left me to die on a footstep in the Parisian winter, next to a pair of torn boots not even worth a nickel. _

_  Very good, Murray, _ the Contessa says softly, patting his cheek.

-

 Sly hunkers down in the Hole once more, rubbing his eyes. He knows the Contessa is at her wits end with him, knows this time, the Hole is his new home. It’s been two days now, and his thighs feel like jelly; last night he tried sleeping while kneeling, and golly if that wasn’t an experience.

 It’s about eight in the evening when his ears pick up something a little off. It takes him several minutes of careful listening before he realises it’s the hum of Bentley’s RC chopper. 

 The relief washing through him is so far beyond anything he’s ever experienced, his knees give out and he bumps his snout against the dirt walls. Muted explosions start nearby,  and a whine fills the air- the humming of the train line, higher, frenzied. Those minutes seem to stretch on for hours, and he begins to wonder if this is all a dream, if he’s finally fallen for the Contessa’s sick therapy.

 But then there’s a loud thud and the sound of tear metal and what feels like an earthquake. Sly throws his hands over his head automatically, terrified, until he notices the moon is shining on him, and there are guards squawking loudly outside.

_ Bentley _ , he thinks, and he finds the strength in his frozen claws to climb out of the Hole.

 He’s met with pure unadulterated chaos. Several guards are unconscious, a train is precariously sticking through the jail wall, alarms are going crazy and Sly doesn’t even have to think about this one, as he somehow pulls his entirely numb legs into action and scrambles through the hole in the wall. It’s perhaps the most graceless movement in his life, but he falls down the other side of the train onto a ledge and lays there for a few seconds, chest heaving, trembling.

But he doesn’t have time to recover; he sits up and scans the night, and there he is, the Wizard himself, perched precariously on a rooftop across the moat.

 His heart hammers in his throat but once again, his legs take over; he soars across the moat, lands on a cable, swings off onto the rooftop.

 Bentley looks thin, exhausted, but tougher, somehow; more solid and unforgiving. 

 “Sly,” Bentley says.

 “How I’ve missed that sensuous voice of yours,” Sly says, and immediately wishes he could staple his own lips shut.

 Bentley looks at him, through him. “Save the jocular comments for later,” Bentley says, in a voice both warm, but terribly, terribly cool. “Come on. I’ve got the van set up on the edge of town, and you’ll need to wash and rest. I don’t doubt you have hypothermia from sitting in that tin can.”

 “You’ve thought of everything,” Sly says admiringly, as Bentley turns to lower himself off the roof. The turtle pauses.

 “Don’t I always?” Bentley says, his voice unreadable, and Sly injects as much into his voice as he possibly can.

 “Yeah. You do. Thanks, Bentley. Thank you for busting me out.”

 “Well,” Bentley says awkwardly. “You know the old saying. ‘If you can’t count on a friend to bust you out of jail, what kind of friend are they?’”

 “Truer words were never said,” Sly grins, and then tacks on, respectfully- “Wizard.”

-

Murray’s staring forlornly at the weights in the yard when the other inmates hush.

 The Contessa click-clacks onto the lifeless asphalt, and stops in front of him, separated only by the barbed wire fence. In the day, she looks terribly out of place, her eyes a nightmare in daylight.

 “Your friend broke Cooper out last night,” she says, her voice apologetic. 

 Murray nods, as if he doesn’t know, as if he didn’t hear the boom that echoed across the facility, the explosions that knocked out a dozen guards. According to the jail grapevine, the town’s train somehow smashed through the walls. Bentley’s work, no doubt, Murray thinks dully. 

 “Naturally, this means security will be tightening,” The Contessa says. Her voice is quiet, but every inmate in the yard hears it. “Not that it matters of course, my dear Murray. If they wanted to break you out, they would have. I’ll see you later this afternoon for our session. 

 “Take care,” she says after a pause, her voice saccharine, and Murray looks up at her. Her mouth is curved, but those eyes are like cold, bloody chips of steel.

-

Sly wakes up, the first sleep he’s had on a comfortable bed in two months, and takes advantage of Bentley’s slumber to use the makeshift shower they constructed years ago.

 Grime falls off him as he lathers his fur, rinses. He almost moans at the warm water, and resists the temptation to use all the water they have.

 Towelling himself off, he pulls on a spare pair of trousers and a jumper, and makes himself an honest to God sandwich. There are welts on his paws from the electroshock torture, and he examines them disinterestedly before biting into his sandwich. 

 He knows he should be more horrified, and months later, when they have time to stop and decompress, he’ll have more to add into his PTSD pot, but right now, they’ve got a gang to take down and a friend to rescue.

 He makes himself a second sandwich, and goes and sits outside in the fresh air.

 “Hey,” Bentley says.

 “Hey,” Sly says back through a mouthful of bread, as Bentley sits down next to him. They awkwardly sit in silence as Sly figures out what to say, but Bentley beats him to it.

 “You really hurt me,” Bentley says quietly, adjusting his glasses. He stares out at the lake. His voice starts out calm, but by the end has an undercurrent of hurt. “You more than Murray. I know I’m not athletic, or strong. But I’m clever. That’s my thing. I’m clever, and even if I can’t climb a skyscraper, or take down ten men in a fist fight, I can rewire the skyscraper’s elevator, or sniper those men from a distance. We’re a team, but you made me feel like it was your show and I was just the sidekick. You need to trust that I know my own limits.”

 Sly stares at Bentley. “Well,” he says, and stops, unsure how to proceed after Bentley’s admission, so direct and sad and angry. “Bentley, I-” he stops and sighs, rubs his head. “I’m sorry for hurting you,” he settles on. “I need to stop seeing you as a stereotype of, well-”

 “A nerd,” Bentley says flatly.

“No- yes-” Sly exhales. “That’s not a bad thing! You’re so smart, I can barely even check my email- what I’m  _ trying _ to say,” he stresses, getting back on track. “What I’m trying to say, is I trust you. Not a single day went by in there that I lost faith that you would get us out. I never had a  _ moment  _ of doubt.” He takes his friend by the shoulders. “You’re my brother, Bentley. I’m so sorry for treating you condescendingly, and for making you feel like shit. I’m going to work to change my behaviour, and to treat you with more respect.”

 Bentley blinks a couple of times. “I was expecting more of a meat-headed response,” he admits. Sly laughs. “That entire two months I was so full of anger, and fear. I guess it stewed up a little. I wasn’t expecting you to be so… sincere.”

 “Look, solitary gives you a lot of thinking time. Of course I was thinking about everything. I really fucked up,” Sly says. 

 “Thanks, Sly. That means a lot to me. I’m sorry too, for how unreasonable I was in the jungle. I endangered us and the mission.”

 Sly claps him on the back. “Don’t be too sorry,” he says. “If you hadn’t, we’d all be in prison making bars of soap.”

Bentley hands him a mug of tea, which he gratefully drinks, and they both enjoy a moment of silence, before Sly nods, finishing the last of his sandwich.

 “Okay, Bentley. What’s the plan?”

-

There’s something distinctly wrong about going through the plan without Murray, but Bentley squares his shoulders. The plan is a work in progress, and Sly’s input will be invaluable, and all they can do is go forward.

 “So, Murray is in Cellblock D. Getting him out now especially, is going to be tough.” Bentley flicks the slides. “We’re going to need to get him into solitary away from the other inmates.”

 “I’m sure he’ll have no trouble starting a fight,” Sly grins.

 “Second, you need to get a sample of the Contessa’s encryption algorithm. Don’t worry, I’ll explain later,” Bentley adds when Sly looks at him doubtfully. “Third- and this will be a test of your skills- I need you to pickpocket some keys from the Contessa.”

 “But I don’t have my cane,” Sly says, and feels a pang. That cane is the only thing left of his family.

 “Don’t worry,” Bentley says. “We’ll be getting the cane on our travels. The Contessa has it locked in her house, in fact, no doubt as a trophy.”

 “Okay,” Sly says. “Thanks Bentley.”

 “And finally- you’ll have to deactivate her giant attack robot.” 

Thankfully, Sly doesn’t burst into laughter as Bentley anticipated, but he is clearly struggling not to ask. Bentley decides to save him the trouble.

 “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m serious. I don’t know where the heck she got it from, it’s certainly out of place among the tech here, but that water tower is a well disguised robot that  _ will _ kill us. We caught her by surprise when I bailed you out, but she’ll have it activated and ready to go at a moment’s notice now. Once all that’s done, we’ll get Murray out of this hell hole.”

 Bentley drops into the chair, and makes his biggest gambit yet.

 “What do you think?” he asks Sly, who is taken aback, but overtly pleased.

 “I think it’s easy enough,” Sly says. “But I need to fill you in on some details. First off, the Contessa is operating the facility illegally-”

 “I know, she’s part of the Klaww Gang,” Bentley says. Sly gapes at him. “I bugged her house when I first arrived here. Her and a Scottish man are double crossing both the Klaww Gang and Interpol. They’re hypnotising criminals under the influences of Rajan’s hallucinogenic spices and making them confess the locations of their loot.”

 “What?” Sly exclaims. “Her and Drummond?”

“Is that his name? He must be employed off the books, I couldn’t find anything about who he could be.”

 “A sociopath is what he is,” Sly says grimly. “They’re not just doing hypnotherapy in there Bentley, they’re doing electroshock treatments.”

Bentley stares at him. Sly holds up the welts on his hands for proof. 

“Sly, oh my god, are you-?”

“I’m probably scarred mentally and physically for life,” Sly says cheerfully. “But I generally just said what he wanted to hear and pretended to black out most of the time, so I doubt I’ve suffered any lasting injury.”

 “They wouldn’t waste time doing that to Murray,” Bentley muses. “His skin is too thick, you’d need a taser to have any effect but they’d be useless for electroshock treatments. How is he?”

 “I couldn’t tell you. I do know that the Contessa is seeing him personally. I’m not sure what state he’s in. This could get messy.”

 Bentley exhales, clammy with worry. “Okay, lets just focus on making contact.”

 They both don’t say what they’re thinking- what if the Contessa’s gotten to him first?

 “The other thing- Carmelita’s still here too, we need to rescue her-”

“She’s been moved to the Contessa’s CBD facility in the middle of Prague,” Bentley says, shaking his head. “I’m sorry Sly, we’ll go help Carmelita after we break out Murray. We can only do so much.”

 Sly slumps, rubbing his eyes. “It’s my fault she’s in there. I can’t believe we- no,  _ I _ , trusted Neyla.”

 Bentley puts his hand on Sly’s shoulder, and the racoon looks up at him.

 “We’ll get her back, Sly,” Bentley promises him. “Nobody double crosses the Cooper gang.”

-

Murray sits in his cell, alone, staring blankly at the wall.

He should be doing something, a small part of him thinks desperately.  _ Get up, do  _ something _ \- anything! _

 His body has become a trap, a tub of fat with his soul stuck inside, and he sits there, miserable, unable to even drag his eyes from the plaster.

 He’s dimly aware of a scuffling behind the wall- probably a rat, he thinks dully, but then there’s someone saying his name.

 It takes him a while to register it, that it’s not that tiny part of him trying to take back his hands.

 “Murray-  _ Murray! _ Bentley,” the voice says, scared, “he’s not responding, he’s awake but he’s not responding, I don’t know what to do-”

_ Sly _ , he thinks, and somehow finds the inner strength to drag his eyes to the vent to his right, lifts those arms, his biceps like lead, move himself along the cot.

 “Sly,” he croaks, and in the vent, he sees brown eyes bright with relief looking back at him. The eyes seem to dance and spin and he blinks laboriously, as Sly pushes his snout up against the vent’s grating.

 “Murray- Murray, you’re ok,” Sly says so warmly, and Murray fights against the catatonia plaguing him.

 “I’m so… glad to see you,” Murray says. “They’re forcing me… to eat these meals… covered in spice…”

 Sly looks terrified. “Murray,” he whispers. “You gotta hold on a little longer, buddy. Bentley needs you to get yourself in solitary. He can break you out from there.”

 Murray can hear the rumble of guards coming down the hallway, and Sly can too; he looks desperately at Murray. 

 “You can do it, Murray,” Sly says encouragingly, desperately. “Don’t eat or drink anything they give you. Be strong.”

 “Sly,” Murray says drowsily, vision swimming again. 

 “I’ll be back for you,” Sly promises, and then he’s gone. When Murray comes to, he’s being hauled down the hallway, towards the Contessa’s office, and his head is a little clearer, and that little voice is a lot louder.

_ You have to fight _ , it says, and Murray somehow, God knows how, as the guards pause to open a door, clumsily punches one of them in the face. 

 The inmates yell and jeer, and the other guard stumbles backwards, reaching for a gun, but Murray finds something taking over now, fire in his blood, and he punches this guard too, but the guard doesn’t stay down, and so Murray has to keep on punching him, and there’s blood everywhere and teeth embedded in his fingers and several other guards all meeting the end of his fist.

 In the end, three guards launch themselves on him and tase him, and that’s when finally, blackness takes him.

-

On his way back, Sly stops by the Contessa’s house. Like Bentley described, it’s full of archaic traps- but of course, this doesn’t mean much to Sly, who breaks open a vent that leads into the basement study and shimmies down. 

 He comes out into a tastefully decorated and lush study, mahogany and rich dark carpets. His cane, predictably, hangs on the wall. The sight makes him grit his teeth, and he takes it off, relishing the feel of it back in his hands.

 “I’ve got the cane, Bentley,” he mutters into his earpiece. “I’m enroute to the bridge shortly.”

 “ _ I’ll be there in ten, _ ” Bentley replies. 

 Ten minutes? That’s a lot of time, he thinks, anger curling his fingers. A lot of time to damage the Contessa’s belongings, to make her feel as scared as Sly did when he came face to face with his friend’s bloodshot, empty eyes.

 She’s at the jail at the moment, he knows this for sure, and Bentley has assured him there are no traps he couldn’t dismantle, no security system. It’s for this reason, Sly finds himself slamming the hook of the cane into a portrait of the Contessa’s mother and pulling down, shredding the canvas. It’s for this reason he breaks her vases. It’s for this reason, he cracks open her safe and takes her draft copy of her dissertation, titled  _ A Case Study of the Effect of Psychotropic Drugs on the Criminal Mind _ , and painstakingly rips it into ragged quarters, then fifths, and sixths.

 He leaves his calling card there, on her desk, on top of those pieces of paper, and leaves back the way he came, and goes and meets Bentley at the bridge.

-

Bentley finishes placing the last of the bombs along the power wires, and the two of them scurry back to their hiding place.

 Several guards are unconscious beneath the bridge, and Bentley takes no small pleasure in detonating the charges.

 The explosions are muffled but effective; he checks his readings, and the jail wall’s security system is indeed down.

 The system of course has a back-up generator, but it will run out by the time they get around to it. In the meantime, Sly and him sit there, waiting for the guards to disperse.

 “How was Murray?” Bentley asks apprehensively. 

 Sly’s lips thin. “They’ve got him drugged up on Rajan’s spices, Bentley. He’s borderline catatonic.”

 Bentley shivers. “We’ll get him out of there. If he’s still on the spices, she mustn’t have been able to fully brainwash him yet. There’s still a chance.”

 “I broke into the Contessa’s house,” Sly says suddenly.

 “Yes, obviously,” Bentley says. 

 “No- I mean- I ransacked the joint,” Sly explains.

 “Sly-” Bentley says in exasperation, but Sly shakes his head, and there’s a cold fury in his eyes Bentley hasn’t seen before.

 “Not to steal, Bentley- you- you didn’t  _ see _ him,” Sly says. “He looked like his soul had been sucked out. I know it’s my fault he’s in there, but the Contessa- she’s sick, Bentley. She’s sick and twisted.”

 “It’s going to be okay, Sly,” Bentley says gently. His friend takes a deep breathe, and shudders.

 “Okay. Okay,” Sly repeats. “What’s next?”

-

Sly hunkers on the rooftop, waiting for the guard to amble over and turn off the incredibly underwhelming siren. He lazily snaps the final picture, and stretches out his legs as Bentley confirms he’s gotten the image.

 “ _ Thanks, Sly,” _ Bentley says absently. “ _ I’ll be able to crack her algorithm in no time with this. Head over to the jail yard where the water tower- attack robot, I mean- is.” _

__ Sly shakes his head but treks over there, mind all the while on Carmelita, all alone.

 Fuck, but he’s messed up here. All he can do is try and make it up to his friends. To Carmelita.

 In the meantime, he guesses he’ll just have to take out this incredibly menacing water tower.

 “ _ That’s it _ ,” Bentley insists. “ _ That’s the giant attack robot.” _

__ “Is it, though?” Sly drawls good naturedly, but even as he looks, he notices there’s no water pipes connecting the so called water tower to any plumbing, and the struts look awfully like legs.

 “I’ _ m serious, Sly, _ ” Bentley says firmly. 

 “Of course,” Sly says immediately. “I trust you- sorry, Bentley.”

 “ _ The lightning rods around the facility draw any lightning away from the robot. I need you to very carefully disable them.” _

__ “Sure,” Sly says. “The thunderstorm we’re currently experiencing will be extremely conducive to that.”

-

“You know,” Bentley says hesitantly into his microphone as Sly curses and wind howls, “Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.”

 “ _ You think?” _ Sly says dryly.

 “You done turning?”

 “ _ Yep. That’s the last one. Only nearly got struck by lightning, what, five times? No big deal. _ ”

 “Sit back and watch the show,” Bentley promises, watching the surveillance feed he’s hacked into closely and finally, a lightning strike hits the robot- which lurches to life.

 Sly lets out a startled yelp.

_ “What the  _ shit _ -” _

The robot lurches around, smashes a couple of walls, jitters and screeches, gets off a single shot (into the air, thankfully) and collapses.

 “Told you so,” Bentley says smugly.

-

Sly observes the Contessa, observes the hook of her chin, how each leg moves self assuredly, watches her disappear into the house. Her guards stand outside, and he waits patiently in the shadows, spinning his cane. Several minutes later she slams the door open, and he can see from here that she’s shaking, her red eyes furious, a tiny glint of fear.

_ Good _ , he thinks savagely, lunging from rooftop to rooftop. Bentley sits nearby, crossbow ready in hand; as the Contessa rounds the corner, he neatly shoots all three of her guards with sleeping darts. They sink to the ground gently, and Sly lands silently behind her, deftly hooking the keys out of her dress pockets, lunging in for a second time for the tank schedule. Returning to the rooftop, he watches her as she turns and realises her guards are gone, her pockets empty.

 There’s true fear in her eyes now.

-

 “We break Murray out tonight,” Bentley says. “Step one: we steal a tank. Step two, I drive and you crawl beneath the main turret- there’s not enough room for two, and even if there was, I need you ready to go the moment we’re in. The guards, who are idiots, let us in. We roll in, blast the cellblock entrance open.”

 “I’m liking it so far,” Sly says.

 “Once we’re inside, we’re going to need to improvise our way up to the guard control center and open the doors to solitary confinement. The system is closed circuited, so I can’t hack them from here. We’ll also be able to open Murray’s cell door from within the solitary block too.”

 “What about the guards?”

 “No problem. There’s a series of tunnels beneath the facility the Contessa has no knowledge of, as far as I know. We get Murray to smash a hole in a structurally weak spot over the tunnel, and we’re out. I’ll also be locking the security doors from the inside once we’re in- nothing short of an atomic bomb will open them.”

 Sly cracks his knuckles. “Let’s do this,” he says.

-

Doctor Drummond grips Murray by the neck.

 “Eat,” he commands. 

 Murray shakes his head. Today he’s managed to avoid eating or drinking at all, and his head is the clearest it’s been for weeks; Sly and Bentley are coming, and he has to be  _ ready _ .

 “Eat,” the doctor continues, taking out a taser, “Or I will use this. The Contessa gave me special permission, Murray. This taser is a hundred times more powerful than the one used on you after you almost killed that guard. You don’t want to hurt any more people, do you?”

 Of course he doesn’t. But Drummond jabs the taser’s points into Murray’s face, puncturing his skin, and Murray shudders in pain, waiting for the dog to press the buttons.

 “Eat,” the dog says.

 “No,” Murray grunts, and suddenly, pain. If he had anything in his bladder, he would wet himself, and he nearly blacks out, struggling to remain conscious. He’s shaking so much he can barely focus his eyes, and Drummond’s angry little eyes come into focus.

 “Eat,” the dog snarls.

 “Please,” Murray gasps, and the dog slams another cartridge into the taser, jamming it into the same exact spot. Murray whimpers.

 “Eat.”

 “ _ Please _ , don’t,-” and now he blacks out, the pain taking him.

 He comes to, and the dog slams another cartridge in, panting in excitement.

 “Hungry, yet?” The dog asks, and the words slur like smoke in the wind to Murray’s ears, he’s so sore, so tired, so hungry.

 Murray nods, and lets Doctor Drummond feed him.

 “Good boy,” the dog croons, and suddenly the lights are off, doors are slamming; Murray drifts in and out of consciousness as Drummond yells through a walkie talkie, as sirens start going off.

Murray screws up his face, trying to focus, to concentrate through the bitter spices coating his tongue. 

 Drummond slaps him across the face, and Murray gasps, his consciousness surfacing.

 “Your friends are coming for you,” the dog says savagely, tearing Murray’s restraints off with one hand while holding a gun level against his forehead. “And you’re going to stop them.”

 “What?” Murray says dopily, not understanding. His arms and legs are free, but he can’t move.

 “We’ll see you shortly for our final session,” the doctor promises, backing out of the cell; then he’s gone, and Murray sits there, until the noise starts.

 It’s penetrating his very brain, sharp and angry and Murray starts vibrating in the chair. every muscle in his body clenched like a spring, a growl building low in his throat, his fingers curled into thick fists, and Murray isn’t Murray anymore, just a lot of fear and anger and pain and violence in a body that doesn’t feel like his own.

-

They can see Murray’s cell from here. It’s wide open, but he’s just sitting there, shuddering, face ferocious, animalistic.

 “This looks bad,” Bentley says, panicked. “I’ve never seen him like this.”

 “He’s all twitchy, and bug eyed- what do we do?” Sly says, staring at his poor friend.

 “I doubt he even knows we’re here,” Bentley says, trying to be logical. They’re both exhausted from fighting through inmates, scratched up and aching, and this almost,  _ almost _ feels beyond them, “We’re going to have to lure him out of that cell the hard way.”

 “The  _ hard _ way?”

 Bentley nods, pointing at several little consoles littered throughout the room.

“Those boxes are what the Contessa uses to amplify and direct the effects of the spices she’s drugged Murray with. They create different pitches and noises, which when used correctly, will essentially control his behaviour.” Bentley takes a deep breath, the guilt washing over him. “We need to switch them all on, get him agitated. Once’s out, we can direct him into smashing each one, and that should get him out of his agitated state.”

 “Can’t you just hack them?” Sly says dubiously. The idea of Murray chasing him down is terrifying.

 “No. They’re simple on-off switches, they aren’t hooked up to anything. We’re going to have to do everything manually.”

“Okay, well, how do we turn the rest on?”

“The switches are sealed behind covers- I’ll hack them from here. Maybe a little higher up. You’ll have to climb up to them, though.”

“Okay. And then what?”

“Murray’s going to rampage. You’re going to have to lead him, matador style, into smashing everything.”

 Sly swallows. “Okay. Okay. Good luck.”

“Good luck,” Bentley echoes, and they break.

-

The noise is more and more and then it’s too much and Murray screams and screams and moves, trying to escape, smashing through his door and over the balcony. He falls two stories, but feels nothing, and that’s when he fixates on a moving shape darting in and out, and he  _ charges _ .

-

Sly has always appreciated his friend’s strength in a fight, but when Murray, sweaty and wild eyed and screaming, is baring down on him, he has a whole new level of appreciation for the terrifying strength of his friend.

 He barely managed to roll out of the way and Murray destroys the third box, hip and shouldering it into shattered metal. 

“ _ Almost there, _ ” Bentley says through the earpiece, but Sly is already lunging out of the way again, sprinting towards the next one, arms pumping as Murray bares down on him. He throws himself out of the way at the last minute, panting as Murray full on headbutts the final console, ramming into it so fiercely the console is lifted off the ground and into the stone wall.

 “Holy  _ shit _ ,” Sly breathes, as Murray crumples onto the floor.

 Bentley drops down from his vantage point and sprints towards them. Murray lays there, and Sly marvels that somehow, his friend hasn’t sustained a single serious injury.

 “Is he okay?” Bentley gasps.

 “He’s breathing,” Sly says uncertainly. 

 Murray’s eyes flutter open, and they both kneel down hesitantly, prepared to leap back if he screams as terribly as he did before.

 “Take a few deep breaths,” Bentley says reassuringly. “Try to center your thoughts.”

 “Okay,” Murray nods slowly.

 “How many fingers am I holding up?” Bentley asks, but Sly’s eyes are drawn to a figure in the blocked off hallway; the Contessa.

 “Bentley,” Murray says, “the Clockwerk heart, it’s back at the temple, we have to go get it-”

 “No it isn’t Murray,” Bentley says reassuringly. “I found it exactly where you hid it, you did a good job.”

 “Oh,” Murray says in relief, closing his eyes briefly. The sight of his friends is a balm on his poor, exhausted mind. “That’s good.”

 Sly turns to Bentley and Murray. “The Contessa- she’s right there-”

 “My conscious mind is a wreck thanks to you three,” the spider says in a horrifically motherly fashion. “I guess it’s time to take my leave.”

 Murray starts to clumsily climbs to his feet. “We can’t let her get away,” he says quietly, and Sly’s fingers grip so tightly on his cane he thinks for a second that he might splinter it.

 “We won’t,” Sly promises him, as the spider flees down the hallway. 

-

They chase after her, Murray at the lead, a cold fury pumping through the remnant haze of the drugs. Sly and Bentley are barely able to keep up with him, as he pushes past his own endurance, his legs moving of their own accord, and they burst into the chilly night air.

 “You  _ lousy _ ,  _ no good head shrinker! _ ” He screams desperately, every moment of anger and fear and doubt of himself shattering through the spices. 

 The Contessa, silhouetted against the moon, regards him kindly. “Come now, Murray,” she says warmly. “We were making progress, coming to terms with your worthlessness, your selfish mother-”

 “Shut  _ up _ !” he howls.

 “Such anger,” she says, and he knows that tone well, the old forced, drugged calm rising up with her voice and threatening to drag him back down. “Such displaced hostility. Why not be psychologically productive, and channel it towards your friends?”

 He hears Sly spit next to him, hears Bentley gasp in outrage. 

She continues: “The turtle who decided to rescue Cooper first, because he was more useful as a partner? The racoon who abandoned you in solitary, because he couldn’t stand you?” She looks at him so gently, and he hates how even as he curses her, those feelings take root in him, ugly thorns curling up his throat. 

 “I’m done talking to you,” he roars, and launches himself at her, Sly and Bentley close behind him.

 But she leaps away, using a shot of webbing to swing over to a waiting blimp, and she’s off and away. She stares intently at him, and he feels cold, tired, doubtful.

 “She’s getting away,” he says limply.

 “Don’t worry,” Sly says. He grips Murray’s shoulder tightly, and Murray feels anchored. “We’ll find her.” It’s a cold, furious promise, and Murray nods.

 Bentley lays his hand on Murray’s forearm. “With the three of us back together, she doesn’t stand a chance.”

 “We better move,” Sly says. “The guards are converging, and I don’t doubt Interpol will be here shortly.”

 “Is the van nearby?” Murray says. “Did you manage to bring it back?”   
 “I drove it all the way here,” Bentley says proudly, and Murray smiles.

-

The drive out of town is quiet. Bentley drives, Murray asleep in the back seat, Sly looking out the window.

 “Sly,” Bentley says hesitantly.

 “Yes?”

“We need to recuperate before we go after Carmelita.”

“I know,” Sly sighs. 

“Murray- well, we need to spend the next couple of weeks really looking after him, mentally  _ and _ physically. The Contessa- you saw what she was like with him.”

 “He’s tough,” Sly says. “He’ll pull through, we’ll make sure of it.”

 “Maybe we go camping for a bit,” Bentley suggests. “With Interpol focusing on tracking the Contessa’s blimp, they aren’t searching the forests.”

 “Sounds good,” Sly nods. “I know it’s only been two months without you guys, but it felt like two years.”

 “It really… it really sucked. I can’t imagine how Murray is feeling.”

 “Like shit,” Murray says with his eyes closed, and they all laugh.

 “How much of that did you hear?” Sly asks.

 Murray cracks open an eye. “Enough to know you guys care about me,” he smiles tiredly. “Also enough to know that if we’re gonna go camping, we need to go buy some marshmallows first.”

 “Sounds good to me,” Bentley says. “Do you wanna take back the wheel, Murray?” 

 The last two months, the van has been Bentley’s only link to his friends, and he doesn’t want to give the wheel back, but he knows how much it means to Murray.

 Murray looks at Bentley lazily. “Nah. I trust you,” he says simply, and rolls over, going back to sleep.

 Bentley smiles broadly, and Sly elbows him affectionately. 

 “Don’t crash it,” Sly grins, pulling his cap down. “I’m gonna have a nap.”

 And so Bentley drives. It feels a lot like it was those two months ago in the jungle, somehow, but nothing like it. The van is heavy this time with his friends, not with his fears, and he relaxes at the wheel.

 Everything is going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your patience!!! between working and studying, it took me literally to get sick before I sat down and somehow wrote this out in an afternoon.
> 
> I'm not super happy with this chapter- it's not like I thought it would be, and I glossed over a lot of the jobs in this one, mainly because I felt there was a lot less I could do with them re tying the emotional plot in. I really wanted to focus on the anger of the gang for this one. we'll be seeing more of drummond in the next couple of chapters, as well as carmelita in addition to sly and murray mentally recuperating. 
> 
> it was really tough to write, and i really enjoyed writing it. I hope you enjoyed reading it!
> 
> thanks again for the kudos and comments, they brighten my day :)


	9. interlude: prague

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the gang takes it easy; Carmelita gets a haircut

The air is crisp, serene. Murray and Sly sit on the edge of the lake, the afternoon sun gentle, waiting for a fish to tug on the line.

 The past week has been… tensely relaxed. Murray knows Sly is impatient to rescue Carmelita, and Murray feels a sting of guilt that though Bentley needs time to track the Contessa down and make a new plan, they’re mainly giving him time to recover. 

 Sly shifts on his haunches. “Man, fishing is boring,” he grins.

 “Naw,” Murray says. “You gotta think of it like meditation.”

 “I hate meditating though,” Sly complains.

 “But you do it all the time,” Murray says.

 Sly looks awkwardly down at his bare toes. “Only because my brain feels like angry static if I don’t,” he confesses, quiet, and Murray frowns, but Sly has a grin plastered back on his face.

 “I wonder what Bentley will try to cook tonight,” he muses. “I don’t know if I can take any more salt and pepper whiting. 

 “I could go for some fried rice,” Murray says. “I really missed Chinese food while we were inside.”

 “Aw,” Sly complains. “Don’t.”

-

Carmelita shrieks in fury as they yank her back against the chair, strap her down, and cut her thick braid of hair off. The ape doing it looks impassive, untouched by her yelling at him in several different languages, and she stares at it, at the hair her mother was so proud of, of the hair she took such care to maintain, and then she hears clippers, a low  _ buzz _ that sends a rage so hot through her skin she sees red as it touches the back of her neck, and he begins shaving her scalp.

 The Contessa stares at her all the while, red eyes unblinking, and Carmelita refuses to show anything other than purest contempt in her gaze.

-

Murray wakes up in the late morning and lies there. He can hear Sly talking to Bentley, indistinct through the tent, and he rolls over, staring at the blank canvas. The last few days have been good; the fresh air, the food, the relaxation. But there’s a deep pit of rage in Murray that he knows time won’t cure, that requires action. Now that the spices have flushed from his system, that his friends have reassured him, the things the Contessa said are like the flu, leaving his body a little weak, but with stronger antibodies, better prepared for self defense. 

 A little longer, he thinks, and he’ll be ready.

-

Carmelita gets shoved into her new cell and she slumps against the bed. If she were a younger, less experienced cop, maybe she would doubt herself. Cry a little. Instead, she runs her hands through the choppy cropped mess of hair, finds solace in her rage.

 Her cell is tiny, but big enough. She lowers herself to the floor and does push ups, and when her arms give out, she does squats, and then sit ups, and then tricep dips, around and around until her body gives out, and then she crawls onto her bed and looks at the ceiling.

 She falls asleep quickly, and then she relieves herself, refuses to eat the slush pushed through the door slot on a grungy metal tray, drinks the water and does it over again.

 Several days of this, and then the Contessa finally deigns to visit her, red eyes glaring through the bars. 

 “You look so small without your hair,” the spider comments, “So gentle.”

 Carmelita bares her teeth at the bars and, in a display of embarrassingly childish aggression, growls at her. “Don’t mistake me for a pup,” she snarls, feeling her fur stand on end. “Less hair means less to weigh me down when I tear your legs from your sockets.”

 The Contessa smiles. “My, you and the hippo share such misplaced aggression! And both of you which such poor parental figures. His mother abandoned him, your father took to the bottle and your mother spent all her money on cocaine… perhaps your obsession with Cooper comes from a need to capture the attention of that wayward male figure?”

 “A Freudian,” Carmelita sneers. “Of course. No wonder you have to resort to illegally detaining criminals and officers to make ends meet.”   
 “I know your views on psychology, Carmelita,” the Contessa coos. “And I know how it comes from your fear to explore your own short comings, your difficulty with holding your anger-”

 “Excuse me if don’t take your so called medical opinion on board.” Carmelita says cooly, ice cold rage in her fingertips as she grips the edge of the bed. 

 “It comes from a place of concern,” the Contessa says. “I know all about your struggle with addiction, inherited from your dear mother, an addiction that makes you hunger for a drug you never even took.”

  The fur rises along her arms. “Don’t talk about my mother,” she says.

 “Have I upset you?” 

 “No. I just don’t like to waste my time talking about her.”

 “So many unresolved issues,” the spider says, tut-tutting. “We will talk soon, my dear, and I will help you through all this.”

 Carmelita gets up, refusing to let her limbs wobble from the her furious exercise, and presses her face against the bars, mere millimetres from the spider’s beady red eyes, and Carmelita stares at her with all the anger and coldness she is capable of.

 “I’d rather impale myself on a butter knife,” Carmelita says, slow and cool, and spits on her face.

-

It’s taken a full day of data-crunching, but finally, her name comes up. In her patient photo, her hair is shorn, and her eyes are furious, snarling at the camera.

 “Sly,” he says, and Sly ambles over, picking at his teeth.

 “What is it?” he asks, and Bentley doesn’t know what to say, so he turns the laptop to Sly.

 He watches Sly’s face darken, watches how his friend’s snout curls in rage.

 “We leave on Monday,” Sly tells Bentley, and that tone brooks no argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has been sitting in my drafts for ages now, and it got to a point where I decided to just post it despite it being way way shorter than i liked. I think part of the problem here is there's such a short time in game between the two prague episodes. anyway, the wait won't be as long for the next one!! 
> 
> next chapter we finish the main part of murray's character arc. don't be fooled- murray may seem better, but he's not all the way there yet.
> 
> while i have you- thank you so much for reading, and thank you all for the lovely comments!!!


	10. A Tangled Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a villain monologue or two, or; the boys are in a warzone and the only way out is forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This is just a fanwork; I am making no profit, just fun)
> 
> thanks for the continued lovely comments guys! sorry this one took a while. I hope you enjoy it. I'm really keen for the next interlude, which I should hopefully have up a lot quicker. 
> 
> I also switched around a few elements in this (such as Neyla hijacking a tank etc) just because.. it felt right? Hopefully it doesn't seem too out of the blue. Let me know what you think! :)

**** “There,” Bentley says, hitting the spacebar and pausing the feed; Sly and Murray crowd around the screen. “She has the Eyes.”

 The footage is courtesy of a bribed thief in the outer rim of the CBD in Prague. The footage is shaky, but undeniable; in a deceptively ordinary brown box is Clockwerk’s eyes.

 Seeing them makes Sly weak in the knees, and he forces the fear out of him, remembering Carmelita’s shaven head. Fury gives him strength he can’t afford to lose.

 “I’ve had a look at the plans for her castle estate,” Bentley says grimly. “It’s a well fortified Gothic nightmare, it takes up several hundred hectares and is  _ full _ of guards. It’s also where her psychiatric centre is located- for the hardened inmates who require a... personal touch.” 

 “Like Carmelita,” Sly mutters. 

 “Like Carmelita,” Bentley nods. “We’ll have to find lodgings outside of the estate nearby, and be in and out very quickly. Once she gets wind that we’re there, she’ll shut the entire thing down.”

 “What does she want with the Eyes, though?” Murray asks.

 Sly knows even as Bentley says it, feeling sick in his gut.

 “Clockwerk’s Eyes are a powerful piece of technology,” Bentley explains, bringing up a set of schematics for the owl’s eye. “In addition to being extremely high definition and having zoom capacity, the eyes can project flashing lights in particular patterns that essentially, if you were to make eye contact with them, would send you into a suggestive, vegetative state. For a very talented hypnotherapist like the Contessa, the Eyes used in combination with the spices would be lethal.”

 Murray nods grimly, and places his hand on Sly’s shoulder.

 “We’ll stop her before she can do anything to Carmelita,” Murray says reassuringly to Sly, whose fingers tighten on the back of Bentley’s chair.

-

They sneak through Prague by night time in thick disguises, camping in the van until they can set up in an abandoned ramshackle shack just a couple of streets away from the Contessa’s estate. They immediately set to fortifying the security, carrying in their equipment and locking down for the evening.

 When Bentley flicks on his police radio, it immediately starts to crackle; he quickly puts his headphones on and fiddles with the dials until the signal clears up.

 “ _.. move in on the Contessa’s position do you read me, over.” _

_  “Alpha 99 responding, read you loud and clear. WIll be in place by 0400, will await further orders.” _

__ Why is a police signal coming through? And what are they doing with the Contessa?

 He chews his lip and wheels his chair over to his laptop, checking on the Interpol email feed he’s hacked into; there are several last minute highly coded emails from Neyla.

 He curses so loudly that Sly and Murray come rushing in.

 “What is it?” Murray says, fists up. 

 Bentley throws his arms up in the air. “Neyla’s here,” he splutters. “And she’s brought an army of mercenaries to launch an attack on the Contessa! We’re walking into a full scale war!”

 “Okay Bentley, calm down,” Sly says soothingly. “When are they making their move?”

 “Tomorrow morning,” Bentley says. “I was planning for us to get some rest before we do any recon, we can’t pull anything together that quickly! It’s three in the afternoon for God’s sake!”

 Sy sucks a breath in between his teeth. “Okay, well, damage control. What can we do now before they start?”

 Bentley buries his face in his hands. “I guess… I guess you can do some recon now? And I can go from there?”

 “Okay, I’ll do that,” Sly says with a calm he doesn’t feel. “I’ll head out now. Maybe have Murray ready to go if I need some help, huh?”

 “Be careful Sly,” Bentley warns him. “If we know Neyla’s here, the Contessa will too, and she’ll have upped security accordingly.”

 “No problem,” Sly says. “How bad can it bed?”

-

Sly climbs to the top of one of the old Gothic churches that border the moat between the city and the Contessa’s estate, and checks the straps on his shoulders again.

 “This is going to be amazing,” he says to the wind, and jumps off from the top of the spire; yanking on the strap, the paraglider balloons out and he barely stops himself yelling from sheer glee as he soars across the river, the air sharp on his face, tail whipping in the breeze.

 Bentley presented the paraglider to him shortly after they arrived in the city. It was a first model, he had said, but he was completely confident it was safe to use. It collapsed into a very light pack and also reassembled itself with a command from the Binocucom. Sly had been exceedingly enthusiastic, and Bentley had been, of course, cautious:  _ there’s a lot of high buildings in Prague, yes, but there’s a not a lot of space to glide through. Be careful. _

 Sly scoffs even now; you don’t become a master thief by being careful.

He drops over the fence, and freezes immediately; several miniaturized tanks roam the courtyard, their search lights cutting through darkness. One of the beams swings towards him and he throws himself behind a nearby gazebo, heart in his throat.

_ Are you fucking kidding me _ , he thinks, ducking his head out from behind cover and then sprinting across to one of the nearby guard housing units, scaling up a drain pipe.

 “Bentley,” he mutters into the Binocucom now that he’s safe from being blown up by a missile, “The Contessa has _ tanks  _ in her  _ yard. _ ”

 “ _ Of course she does. How can this get any worse. Look, take some recon photos  and then make your way up to the… “re-education tower”.” _ Bentley’s voice wavers on that, and Sly looks up at the incredibly tall and thin tower on the horizon, cutting across the moon like a gash in skin.

  “Looks… pleasant enough,” Sly says, and disconnects the call.

  Creeping along the border between the estate and the river and outside city, Sly notices one of the buildings on the edge of the river near the bridge entrance into the estate has a couple of guards out the front that don’t look like they belong in Prague. He snaps a picture and relays it to Bentley.

 “ _ That’s an old bank,” Bentley mutters. “Why are there guards out the front? Hold on… _ ” the tapping of keys, and then: “ _ Ah, That’s where Neyla and her mercenaries are located. We might need to drive her out later… but it’s a pretty secure building. Mmm. Keep going Sly, I’ll need to think about this one _ .”

  Sly stares at the building. He hasn’t really had the chance to think about Neyla and her betrayal. Knowing that she’s there, only a couple of meters away- he doesn’t know how to feel about that.

 Was she lying about  _ everything _ ?

  “ _ Get a move on, Sly,” _ Bentley says anxiously, and Sly forces himself to keep moving, coming to the bridge. He gazes down at it, looking for a weak spot, when he sees the water rippling as a little boat comes out from beneath the bridge. After a couple of minutes, he realises it’s circling the estate. Odd, he thinks, sending another snap. 

 “ _ The Contessa has these boats already out on patrol against Neyla’s army,”  _ Bentley says in disbelief. “ _ Boats! Boats and tanks! Be careful, Sly.” _

 As if he needs to be told that, but he keeps creeping around the estate, crawling higher and higher. He takes a couple of minutes on top of a several story high building, and then sees a blimp drift out from behind the taller towers in the middle of the estate.

_ Bentley’s not going to like this _ , he thinks, and he’s right.

 “ _ That’s the blimp the Contessa used to escape from the prison! She has  the  land, water  _ and _ air advantage!” _ Sly can basically hear him having a heart attack, and then Bentley takes a deliberate and slow breath. “ _ We might have to use that to our advantage with all these high towers. Okay- head up to the re-education tower. I suspect that’s where we’ll find the Clockwerk eyes.” _

__ “What about Carmelita?” Sly asks, grunting as he begins climbing up the top of the an even higher row of houses.

 “ _ I’m not sure yet,” _ Bentley says. “ _ But we’ll find her, I promise. _ ”

 There’s silence for a good twenty minutes as Sly makes his way across to that terrible looking tower, clawing his way to the top window. He takes a good couple of minutes to breathe. Bentley wasn’t joking about how many high buildings there are. Then he carefully slides it open and hops inside. It’s an odd little shaft with an old but sturdy ladder, and he makes his way down slowly and quietly, trying to catch his breath. He can hear indistinct voices, and they get louder and louder until he reaches the floor in a tiny little room that’s blocked off by an old wooden wall, as if forgotten. Perhaps an escape route to the blimp, he thinks sagely, and creeps closer to the gaps in the wall. His heart claws its way to his throat as he sees Carmelita strapped to a table, hair shorn and mussed, a black eye, her fur matted, in an old hospital gown. She looks thin, exhausted, slumped against the restraints, and he fights every urge to break down the boarded wall and rescue her.

 “ _ Sly? Are you ok?” _

 Bentley’s voice brings him back, and he opens up his Binocucom and live broadcasts in response, too afraid to speak in case someone hears him. A good choice: the Contessa walks into view, fiddling with several control panels he only assumes are hooked up to Carmelita’s restraints. Behind her, two huge, muscled eagles stand guard.

 “Why are you doing this?” Carmelita says. His chest wrenches; her voice is rough, tired. “Neyla- she set me up, I’m an honest cop, you  _ know  _ this-”

 “Of course you are,” the Contessa says dismissively. “I’ve read your psychological profile. I know that you’re honest.”

 “Then… why?” Carmelita says, gazing with bloodshot eyes at her. 

 “Because, my dear, your honesty would have been my downfall.”

 “What-?”

 “Really, I might as well tell you at this point. Once I’m done, you won’t even remember. I’m surprised, frankly, you haven’t figured it out yet, really. By chasing after the Cooper gang, you learned too much about the Klaww gang and its spice operation. It was a only a matter of time before you figured out I was a secret member.”

 This seems to wake Carmelita up; she gapes. Sly meanwhile rolls his eyes; a classic villain monologue.

 “But you’re one of the highest ranking officers in Interpol,” she cries. “Why-?”   
 The Contessa lets out a loud sigh. “My dear, I like money, and I like having money, especially when it's a  _ lot _ of money. I know it benefits you to be able to put aside all your problems and views into two little black and white boxes, but when are you going to wake up and smell the roses? Life isn’t black and white. It’s a million shades of grey.”

 “You’re a coward,” Carmelita says slowly. “I’ll kill you for this.”

 “Glad to see my years of experience as a psychologist are getting through to you,” the Contessa says dryly. “Enough of this. Time for me to try out my new equipment.”

 She flips a switch and both Sly and Carmelita brace themselves; but nothing happens, and Carmelita swears.

 “Drummond told me he had calibrated everything,” she mutters. “That stupid dog- if he’s damaged the Eyes…” She looks back at Carmelita. “I’ll be back later, my dear. Don’t go anywhere.”

 She leaves the room, slamming it behind her.

 “ _ Sly, get some photos of all the equipment and locks you can see, and get out of there. I know you want to help her, but there’s nothing you can do now. I promise, we’ll get her out. _ ”

 Sly does as he’s told, but the entire time, he tastes copper in his mouth from furiously biting his tongue.

-

Sly’s photos snap across the wall one after the other. Murray can feel Sly’s jaw creaking from here.

 “The incoming war between Neyla and the Contessa has her estate on high alert,” Bentley says grimly. “To get at the Clockwerk Eyes, we’ll need to manipulate this conflict to our advantage.”

 For the first time ever, Murray finds himself apprehensive. The Contessa… she isn’t a brawny guard Murray can just punch. Her power lies in the mind, and Murray’s mind isn’t his strong point. But Murray steels himself; he isn’t alone this time.

 “Here’s the plan. Murray- you’re going to sneak into the castle and ambush the head of security.”

 “Me- sneak? How?” Murray says, brow furrowed. “Isn’t that something Sly would be better off doing? How am I gonna get in there, anyway?”

 “He’s a tough old bat,” Bentley says. “Frankly, Sly’s not strong enough to subdue him. As for getting you in, don’t worry. There’s actually a couple of other bridges that meet the estate at low points in the walls that will be easy for you to scale.”

 Murray nods. “Okay Bentley, I trust you.”

 Bentley looks pleased, and continues. “Okay while Murray does that, I will be making our way through the underground crypts to put together a… bad mojo bomb.”

 “Is this like the elephant satellite dish?” Sly says after a few seconds of looking confused.

 “Worse,” Bentley sighs. “The Contessa is using a special machine to focus the Clockwerk eyes. She’s using a magic-science machine called a Mindshuffler, and only “black” magic will destroy it.”

 “I thought only the crocodile tribes Mz Ruby came from knew how to perform black magic,” Sly says, looking more confused than ever. “And I thought you were refusing to call it magic, anyway?”

 Bentley grimaces. “Look, magic is just science we don’t understand yet, and that applies here for sure. But we don’t have time for me to get my old unfinished dissertation out, so calling it magic is quicker and easier. In any case- while I’m making a… bad… mojo bomb, you’ll need to capture a few ghosts.”

 “What-”

 Bentley holds up his hand, looking extremely pained. “Please don’t,” he says. “I don’t know how, but according to several accounts in the Contessa’s files, ghosts are a thing and that’s it. You’ll be capturing them in your binocucom-”

 “ _ What- _ ”

 Bentley shushes him. “Look, for lack of a better phrase, the Contessa is fucking with some severely bad juju. I can be mystified scientifically about this later, but right now, just do as I say.”

 “God, I hate Prague,” Sly says.

 “That’s the spirit,” Bentley says. “Once you get the ghosts, I want you to drop them through the chimney of the bank Neyla has occupied. I’m predicting the sudden appearance of ghosts will scare the bejesus out of them, and she’ll be both terrified enough by the ghosts and angry enough someone snuck up on them in their own territory that she’ll purchases some weaponised planes for cover.”

 “God almighty,” Sly mutters.

 “That’s it for now,” Bentley concludes, flicking off the projector. “Let’s do this.”

-

Murray heads out first, acutely terrified as he narrowly avoids the tanks and manages to clamber over the wall at Bentley’s instruction. Dropping into the Contessa’s estate, he feels a cold sweat break out through his thick clothes.

_ She can’t hurt you anymore, _ he tells himself firmly, balling his hands into fists.

It’s slow going through those winding streets as he ducks behind door frames, checking the map every couple of minutes as he makes his way higher and higher. He gets to the co-ordinates in the binocucom and Bentley’s voice cuts in.

“ _ Hey, Murray- can you see the General from there?” _

__ Murray squints through the binocucom.

 “Nope,” he says after a bit. “Oh, wait- there’s an old man coming up the ramp.” A grizzled looking bat limps across one of the high walkways, several medals pinned to his old school jacket. 

 “ _ Don’t let his appearance fool you. That’s General Clawfoot, and he’s one of the toughest old soldiers you’ll ever see- not to mention, head of castle security.” _

“What if he doesn’t want to come? I don’t want to hurt him,” Murray frowns; even from here, the General’s old age is apparent. 

 “ _ Don’t worry about that, _ ” Bentley says. “ _ He’s only afraid of two things- fire, and water. Other than that, you couldn’t hurt him if you  _ wanted _ to. If you check in your field kit, there’s a couple of sedative patches. Just peel the backing off one, get in close and stick it to his bare skin. It’ll knock him out long enough for you to scan his keycard and grab his credentials with the binocucom. He’ll wake up about twenty minutes later with no recollection of what happened.” _

__ “Okay,” says Murray, relieved. He’s sure that anyone working for the Contessa can’t be a good guy, but he takes no pleasure in beating up old people either. He stows the binocucom and waits for the General to pass a little closer, before seizing him in a one handed sleeper hold.

 The General wastes no time and somehow manages to bite down into Murray’s arm through several layers. Murray bites back a yelp, slapping the sedative patch onto the old bat’s neck awkwardly around his flailing wings. For thirty extremely long seconds, the two of them wrestle silently; more sharp pain as those tiny little feet kick viciously into Murray’s ribs, and then blessed be, he’s asleep.

 Murray lets him down gently, wincing at the savage bite mark in his forearm. It isn’t gushing blood, but it’s still a nasty wound, already swelling and bruising.

 “Yikes,” he mutters to himself, looking at it. He briefly hopes he doesn’t have rabies, then feels bad for thinking such a racial stereotype. 

 Rifling through the bat’s pockets, he scans the keycard and takes photos for Bentley of his ID, and then also scans his phone, trusting Bentley will be able to find what he needs. 

-

 Bentley is extremely uncomfortable with this mission. Not because he doesn’t believe in “magic”, as the layman calls it, but because magic is such an under-researched field of science and though he may have a good grasp of how magical energy works and how to deal with it, he’s out of his depth, here. He also has a nasty feeling the catacombs will be quite badly booby trapped. 

 He uses the replica keycard he made from Murray’s scan of the General’s items, glancing at the frankly kitsch gargoyle carved into the stone door. 

_ No wonder magic isn’t taken seriously _ , he thinks, quickly stepping in and closing the door behind him. Luckily, the catacombs are lit for the Contessa’s frequent trips for her bad mojo collector.  Bentley’s relieved, if he’s honest; he doesn’t fancy going through with just a torch.

 Murray chimes in as he creeps slowly through the tunnels.

 “ _ How you going down there, buddy?” _

“It’s pretty spooky,” Bentley admits. “No booby traps yet, but it’s a matter of time, I think.”

 “ _ Be careful _ ,” Murray says anxiously, and this time, Bentley doesn’t feel that annoyance. Murray’s concern and presence is, frankly, comforting.

 “I will,” Bentley says. “No-one patrols these tunnels, according to the rosters.”

 He comes to a door in the tunnel with another swipe card slot; at the same time, reception on the comm link starts getting muddy.

 “This is it,” Bentley says. “Murray, I suspect the magical energy is going to cut our comms while I’m in this section of the catacombs. If you don’t hear from me within half an hour, let Sly know and head over to these coordinates, okay?”

 “ _ Okay. Good luck.” _

 Bentley swings the door open and there it is, across a painfully long hallway; a collector sitting on top of a gaudy little column beneath a frightfully rendered bat. As he watches, he sees a miasma of red energy dripping slowly into the collector, and he hears the comm link cut out.

 The schematics for this room don’t exist; he takes out several devices and scans the room for electronics.

 Pressure plate there… hidden light-wire there… oof, swinging axes,  _ really _ ?

 He casts his attention to the walls near the entrance, feeling along the wall for a hidden keypad or something similar. A tiny button clicks under his fingers, and a section of wall slides back to show an ancient looking numberpad.

 Bentley stares at it, thinking, thinking, about the Contessa. He keys in 06051856 hesitantly- Freud’s date of birth - and his devices beep as the electricity to the booby traps power down. Just to be sure, he lightly tosses a scrunched up piece of paper onto the pressure plate; nothing happens. He relaxes, but cautiously picks his way through the hallway. His profile of the Contessa suggests she would be too arrogant to ever put anything more than basic traps up, and his profile is right.

 He comes to the collector- an awful, hodgepodge looking device - and watches as that red miasma drops down. It’s taking an awfully long time to fill, and he takes out a very rudimentary device he threw together before leaving, attaching it to the collector. Flicking it on, a long stream of bad mojo is sucked out of the bat’s mouth and into the collector until it’s dried out; suddenly, the bat cracks into dust.

 “Interesting,” Bentley mutters as he carefully screws the collector shut and takes it off its pedestal. It’s full, and he regards it with mistrustful eyes. His research on magic- “black” magic especially, badly named as it is (he prefers to think of it as bad mojo or negative magic more technically) is limited. It’s a volatile energy, and powerful; concentrated like this in conjunction with a bomb, it’ll easily destroy the Mindshuffler. He thinks of Carmelita, and shudders in pity for her. She may be antithetical to their mission, but he respects and admires her dedication and prowess as an officer; she doesn’t deserve this.

 With this in mind, he very,  _ very _ carefully makes his way back to the hideout, careful of even jostling the collector lest it explode.

-

Sly stands over the priestess’s coffin with his cane in hand, feeling a little guilty about the desecration he’s about to do. Bentley has assured him that the Wolf Priestess was known for her cruelty, but desecrating dead bodies isn’t really his style. He flicks on the special attachment Bentley gave him for the binocucom that will apparently suck the ghosts up like a vacuum. The whole thing, frankly, gives him the heebie jeebies, and he can  _ feel _ that swamp water beneath his feet again, flash back to Mz Ruby’s shambling swamp.

   He brings the cane over his head, and after a couple of seconds, brings it down  _ hard _ . The wood is rotted and smashes apart instantly. The corpse thankfully is dry and treated, but as Sly’s cane continues its downward motion, it smashes through the body.

 Sly grimaces, and then freezes as a chill races up his spine; the corpse turns its death mask face towards him.

_ Cooper _ , it says in his head and he watches, frozen, as its gnarled claws reach up for him. Of his own accord, he watches as his arm brings the cane down on that porcelain death mask, shattering it into a thousand pieces.

 The corpse immediately falls limp and blessedly lifeless, and there’s an explosion of light and wind without sound, whispering voices past his ears. The ghosts stream joyously free outwards before the binocucom kicks in and sucks them all, dragging and screaming, into the little container.

 He stands still for a good few minutes, shivering, and then shakes himself out, brushing the…. corpse dust away.

_ Gross. _

-

Murray is watching the Contessa’s building from the roof of the safehouse with an eagle eye through his binocucom.

 “How are you going Sly?”

_ “Severely creeped out,”  _ Sly says back. “ _ A corpse just talked to me and I have all these ghosts in my pocket. I really hate Prague.” _

__ “Me too,” Murray says. “Also,  _ what?  _ A  _ corpse?” _

__ “ _ Don’t,” _ Sly says. “ _ It was awful, and I will never get over it. How’s Neyla’s HQ  looking?” _

__ “Pretty quiet,” Murray says. “A whole bunch of people went in earlier- I think they’re having a meeting. Are you almost there?”

 “ _ Yeah, coming from the east now. That’s perfect though, this will scare the absolute  _ shit _ out of them. _ ”

 Murray can see Sly’s form now that he’s looking for it; the racoon slinks over the rooftops, barely distinguishable from the spires and arches.

 “ _ Okay, let's do this, _ ” Sly says, and Murray watches as Sly forcefully throws the container through the chimney.

 It explodes in light and a wind Murray can feel from here; almost immediately, people are fighting to exit the building, and Murray gapes as ghosts stream out through the doorways in a rush of glowing light that is as ethereal as it is creepy.

 Through Sly’s comm link, he can actually hear Neyla in all her fury.

 “ _ So the Contessa wants  _ war _ , does she?”  _ The tigress screams. 

 “ _ Holy shit,” _ Sly whispers gleefully. Even from here, Murray can see how visibly shaken the tigress is; her headscarf askew and her fur on end. He feels a little guilty about it, but it’s immensely satisfying to see her upset and scared. Murray knows the Contessa is the true enemy here, but Neyla had no qualms about delivering them into her cold claws. 

_ Good _ , Murray thinks.  _ Good. _

-

Back in the safehouse, and Bentley is looking triumphant. It’s a nice change for them, after the last couple of months.

 “Alright fellas, let's get down to business. The first step to escalating the way between the Contessa and Neyla has gone well. We’re down to the final set up before we spring our trap.”

  Sly slurps up a noodle from his soup. “Lay it on us Bentley.”

 “Sly, I need you to steal a voice modulator from the castle and install it in Neyla’s headquarters. This will let us give orders to Neyla’s mercenaries without being detected.”

 “No problem,” Sly says, eyes looking merry. Bentley holds up a finger.

 “Unfortunately, and I should have accounted for this- her recent bomber purchase has made her army… overenthusiastic. If they strike before we’re ready, there’s nothing we’ll be able to do for Carmelita or the Eyes. Which leads me to Murray.”

 Murray nods at Bentley as he makes his way through his second burger.

“Murray, I need you to hotwire one of the Contessa’s tanks and go to  _ town _ on the mercenaries- knock their confidence back a little.”

 Murray grins. “It’s been a while since I had to hotwire anything, but it’s just like riding a bike. Leave it to me, Bentley.”

 “Murray, while you do this, I’ll be sneaking back into the crypts with Sly so I can power up the old computer in the re-education tower. We’re going to need it to save Carmelita.”

 “Easy,” Sly says, knocking back the last of his soup. “I’ll be back within the hour, Bentley.”

 “Be careful out there,” Bentley says. “Those planes are  _ everywhere _ , and the Contessa’s put out more guards on patrol.”

 “Noted,” Sly replies, zipping up his jacket and slipping the glider attachment on. He leaves the front door, and the wind smacks him in the face. 

 “Hold up, Sly,” Murray says. “I’ll head out with you.”

“See you guys soon,” Bentley calls as they close the door behind them.

“How are you holding up, buddy?” Murray asks, zipping his own jacket up to his chin and pulling his beanie down further. 

“I’m okay,” Sly says. He’s only lying a little. “How about you?”

Murray doesn’t answer for a couple of seconds as they watch a tank rumble around the corner. Once it’s gone, he stuffs his hands in his pockets.

 “I dunno,” he says truthfully. “I feel like… once we knock the Contessa off her pedestal, I’ll feel good again. Closure. But I do feel a lot better, honestly.”

 “I’m glad to hear,” Sly says sincerely. “You’ve had a real rough couple of months, you know. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

 Murray grins down at him. “Please,” he says, flexing those burly arms. “It’s my job.”

 Sly laughs, but lays a hand on Murray’s forearm. “Seriously though. it’s great you’re doing well, but you’re well within your rights not to be.”

 Murrays grin turns a little softer. “Thanks, Sly.”

 Soon, they come to their turn off; Murray waves and slips down a side street. Sly climbs up onto the rooftops now, spinning his cane as he watches the now dark skies carefully. The planes aren’t coming too close over here, but every now and then one passes by and he ducks behind a chimney or arch.

 “ _ So, the Contessa plans to take control of Neyla’s army by fooling them with this prototype voice modulation device. Unluckily for her, we’re going to do it first.” _

__ “Sounds good to me,” Sly says, watching a plane a few streets away swoop across the sky.

 “ _ First off, I need you to steal a couple of keys from some head guards on patrol. They’re very vicious and well armed, so, uh. _ .”

 “Be careful?” Sly says.

 “ _ Yep. I feel like I’m saying that a lot today. _ ”

 “I don’t blame you, I’ll be glad when we get out of this city. I’ll let you know once I’ve got them,” Sly says, and stows the binocucom. It takes him roughly five minutes to steal the keys (the two guards are right next to each other talking about television!). Bentley sends him the coordinates for the storage room the modulator’s and its wire tap are locked in, and he vaults over the wall into the Contessa’s estate and starts making his way up the towers.

 Sly really, really can’t wait for Prague to be behind them. 

 He ducks into the storage room, grabs the wire tap and the voice modulator, and then gets the hell out. He can’t even parasail down otherwise he’ll be shot out of the sky; he makes his way back down to ground level through the guards and tanks, and finds himself ten minutes later on his belly crawling through the pipe system beneath Neyla’s headquarters.

 “Once we’re done here,” he grunts into the comm link, “I want to go somewhere warm and bright, Bentley.”

 “ _ Sounds good to me pal,”  _ Bentley says.

-

Murray is having the absolute time of his life. The tank is a shambling old hulk of a machine, but he’s in his element here, piloting it with ease.

 “That’s three tanks now, Bentley,” he says into his comm link. “How’s it looking?”

“ _ Their channels are going wild,”  _ Bentley says smugly. “ _ How’s the old girl handling?” _

__ “Surprisingly well,” Murray replies, turning around a corner. “They’ve taken good care of it.”

 “ _ I reckon another two or three ought to do it,” _ Bentley says. “ _ Try to take out some tanks a little closer to their headquarters- that will really shake them.” _

__ “Sounds good to me,” Murray says, throwing the tank into reverse so he take a turn he missed earlier. He takes another two tanks out on his way there, and finds himself right in front of her headquarters, with six tanks patrolling which immediately turn their turrets to him.

 Sweating only a little, he immediately hits reverse and backs up, but just before he rolls out of view, he carefully aims through the shots fired his way and sends a very sneaky pot shot at the headquarters. It shatters one of the corner columsns and the roof dips a little. It’s not lethal, but he thinks that’s better value than another tank gone.

 “ _ Neyla’s ordered them to hang back, Murray- get out of there while you can,” _ Bentley says. Murray nods, and hightails it back to the safehouse. No-one seems to follow him, thank God. Once he slides the tank back under cover, Bentley comes back down the line:

 “ _ Neyla is losing her mind over there,” _ Bentley says. “ _ Nice job, Murray. They’re quite intimidated. I don’t think they expected the Contessa to do something that bold.” _

__ Murray pats the tank. “I’ll miss driving this thing. It’s been awhile since I got to go heavy duty.”

 “ _ Don’t worry too much about that. We’ll be using her again for the heist in a couple of hours, don’t you worry.” _

 “Glad to hear it. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes, how’s Sly going?”

 “ _ He’s almost done too. Be real cautious coming back Murray, Neyla will be sending more patrol out as well in a couple of minutes.” _

__ Bentley’s not wrong; as he comes back  through the streets, he has to stop every couple of minutes and duck out of sight as a tank’s blue light rolls through the streets. It suddenly strikes Murray in a way it hadn’t before; they’re literally in a battlefield, and there’s only so much time before bombs start flying.

-

Sly does not at all like the catacombs. It’s dusty, it’s dark, and he gets a feeling like he’s going to turn around and another corpse is going to call his name and lurch out of the gloom.

 “I can’t believe you came down here on your own,” he says to Bentley.

 “It was okay,” Bentley shrugs. “If the lights were out, I maybe would have thought twice about it.”

 “Were there booby traps in the end?”

 “A few. I disarmed them quickly enough though. It really wasn’t as bad as I was expecting.”  

 “Hmm,” Sly says doubtfully. “How are you going to hack this terminal? You said they don’t have any power, right?”   
 “According to the info I downloaded with the General’s details, the Contessa has some kind of high-tech energy device stored near the first terminal. It’s beyond anything I’ve managed to cobble together, that’s for sure. Another grotesquely inventive mix of magic and science. I’m not sure who’s making these for her, but I suspect it might be Arpeggio.”

 “The bird?” Sly remembers the crippled little thing and doubt creeps into his tone.

 “Physically disabled he may be, but he’s an extremely resourceful and clever man. I suspect he put together that satellite array with the elephants too for Rajan. Out of all our foes, I look forward to dealing with him the least,” Bentley says very seriously, and Sly is a little startled by that; Bentley mustn’t be exaggerating.

 They continue through the winding dim hallways, and Sly’s ears prick up as he hears very faint far off footsteps. He grabs Bentley’s shoulder.

 Bentley, who knows when Sly is serious, immediately falls quiet.

_ There’s someone down here _ , Sly mouths. 

 Bentley frowns but doesn’t contradict him, bringing his hand to rest on his crossbow. They wait, and Sly strains his ears; there it is again, on the edge of his hearing. He and Bentley turn down a dead end corner and crouch out of sight as Sly struggles to pinpoint the direction of the sound.

 Ahead of them, getting closer; suddenly, something about those footsteps are familiar.

 “It’s Drummond,” Sly says very softly, and feels Bentley tense up next to him. “Why would Drummond be down here?”

 “Most likely to collect more magic for the Mindshuffler,” Bentley murmurs. “Carmelita must be proving difficult for them. I suspect though from your recon that neither of them have hooked it up correctly to the Eyes.”

 “The Contessa did say he was the one calibrating everything,” Sly says thoughtfully. “Would it- would it be worth our while to…”

 “Knock him out?” Bentley says. “I don’t think so. We’d just alert the Contessa to a third enemy. Is he getting closer?”

 Sly concentrates. The footsteps are still there, but they aren’t getting closer. As he listens, they abruptly stop; likely, the dog went into a room and closed the door.

 “No, he’s either left or gone into another set of rooms.”

 “Okay, let’s move quickly. Once we get into the terminal room, I’ll need you to stand guard, okay?”

 “Easy,” Sly says, and they walk through several different turns and come to the right door. Bentley unlocks it quickly with the General’s keycard and they slip in.

 “Alright, wait here for a couple of seconds,” Bentley instructs him, and sets to checking for traps, of which they see are many.

 “You’d think it’s a bank we’re robbing,” Sly mutters.

 Bentley disarms them, and he crosses to the end of the hallway where a peculiar little machine sits on a shelf. Bentley takes it down and examines it before stowing it in his backpack.

 “How’s it work?” Sly asks from his position with his ear to the door.

 Bentley shakes his head, in awe. “It’s wireless charging,” he says reverently. “This is… disturbing.”

 “We can be disturbed later,” Sly says. “Drummond’s on the move again, get that terminal going.”

 Bentley stands next to the terminal and without having to even take the machine out, the computer powers up beneath his hands.

 “That’s pretty impressive,” Sly murmurs, eyes bright and curious. 

 “An understatement,” Bentley says absently, logging into the system with ease. Sly watches his friend as he keeps track of those footsteps.

 The Contessa is terrifying, but she’s a normal villainous sort of terrifying. Drummond is… insidious. Sly has no trouble remembering the gleeful breathiness that Drummond had whenever he got to torture Sly. He thinks about Carmelita strapped down and has to shake his head, forcing himself not to think about what Drummond and the Contessa have done to her. 

 With that month behind him, electricity and a fanged smiles have finally joined those nightmares of screeching metal and lava. 

 “Almost there,” Bentley says. “The Contessa may have had some help from Arpeggio, but he needs to restructure their security.”

 “How come the Contessa even has computers down here, or in the tower? It’s a huge security risk,” Sly mutters. 

 “She’s a psychologist, not a security expert,” Bentley shrugs. “Lucky for us.”

 A few more minutes of silence; Sly can’t hear any footsteps at all.

 “Done,” Bentley says. “Let’s get out of here. Ever since you told me about the Wolf Priestess’s corpse coming to life this entire city is giving me the willies.”

 “Done and done,” Sly mutters, and they take great pleasure in exiting the catacombs for good. 

-

Usually there’s an air of excitement when it comes time for the heist; this time, there’s a grimness. It’s not just the Eyes on the line, but Carmelita too. Bentley watches Sly in particular; his body language tight and tense, Sly looks even more exhausted than usual. Once this is over, Bentley thinks he needs to talk to Sly; even before everything with Drummond and the Contessa, his friend’s been struggling to sleep well.

 Bentley rubs his eyes, and flicks on the projector.

 “Okay. It’s time to wage war. Murray, you’ll take down the spotlights on the main gate with the General’s keycard. Then, with the help of the voice modulator, I’ll order Neyla’s forces to attack through the main entrance.”

 Bentley looks at his audience; they’re both following along fine and don’t at all seem terrified by the chaos they’re about to create. 

 Bentley feels a large measure of fondness for his friends.

 “Sly, during this mess, you’ll paraglide the two of us over to the Contessa’s get away blimp, and I’ll pilot it to the re-education tower. That assault on the castle will undoubtedly take the Shadow Guards out of the tower, and if we free Inspector Fox, she’ll take out the Contessa.”

 Here, Sly frowns. “I don’t know about that, Bentley. I mean, she’ll be pretty traumatised, and physically weak, right?”

 Bentley shakes his head. “You haven’t read her psych profile, Sly. Trust me. She’s going to fly off the handle the moment she’s free. The reason Drummond was poking around in the catacomb was because Carmelita was proving too much for them, I guarantee it.”

 But Sly still looks dissatisfied, so Bentley adds, “If worst comes to worst, you can help Carmelita while I shoot the Contessa down with sedatives. Frankly though Sly, I think it’s best she doesn’t know we’re there. This is going to be messy enough to pull off without Carmelita trying to chase us too.”

 Sly exhales, but nods. 

 “I promise Sly, we’ll keep tabs on her and make sure she’s okay,” Bentley says reassuringly before returning to the slideshow. “So, once the room is empty, I’ll blow up the Mindshuffler, we grab the eyes, and make a sweet getaway on the Contessa’s blimp. Any questions?”

 Murray looks hesitant. “Bentley, why aren’t I doing more?”

 Bentley blinks. “Uh, well. Getting up to the tower, frankly, is going to be difficult, and I need you on standby to provide ground support with that tank if need be.” 

 “Oh,” Murray says, looking embarrassed, and Bentley realises what Murray was really asking.

 “It’s not because I think you can’t handle the Contessa,” Bentley says quickly. “I promise, Murray. Between the top entrance to the re-education tower being very hard to get to and all the firepower going on, I just have a hunch we’re going to need you on the ground ready to bail us out if everything goes to hell. “

 Murray nods and looks visibly less uncomfortable. “Thanks, Bentley.”

 Sly sticks up his hand. “Why do we need the blimp? There’s going to be planes going haywire up there, why don’t I just climb us up?”

 “I did consider this,” Bentley admits. “But I ran the calculations, and frankly, the Contessa’s blimp is armed. It’s slightly less risky for us to take the blimp rather than you struggle to carry us both up there.”

 “Fair enough,” Sly says. “I’m kinda just hoping we don’t explode up there.” It’s a little jokey, but not jokey enough.

 “Me too,” Bentley says through a weak grin. “Let’s do this, gang.”

-

The spotlights power down after Murray swipes the card and flicks the switch, and after a couple of seconds, so do the automated turrets. 

 “Okay Bentley, the gate is clear,” he says softly into his comm link, and heads for where they stored the tank. Sure enough, he hear’s Neyla’s voice boom through the streets:

 “ _ Attention bloodthirsty mercenary forces: the castle defences are  _ down _. Move out and press an attack on the castle! The Contessa wants war- let’s give her one.” _

__ Murray slips down a side street and unlocks the abandoned garage door. He makes it in just as all of Neyla’s tanks start streaming through,  and he hunkers down to wait and watch.

-

Sly and Bentley watch from their roost on one of the high towers as war erupts. The ground starts shaking below them, and both of them swallow as the planes get involved.

 “Fucking hell,” Sly says. 

 “No time for fear,” Bentley says despite being visibly perturbed. “Please don’t let go, though. I may be a turtle but that water is far colder than I can handle if you drop me.”

 “I won’t drop you pal,” Sly promises, and Bentley retreats into his shell. Sly carefully slips him into the backpack he brought just for this purpose, and Bentley crackles to life through the comm link.

 “ _ Keep in mind you’re going to be heavier than you’re used to while you glide over there. Best to get a running start.” _

__ Sly backs up a bit, and waits for the blimp to come a little closer, and then, he runs. 

-

For Bentley, the world is dark and jostling and then, the unmistakable sensation of Sly leaping as his heart gets stuck in his stomach. 

 Then Sly engages the glider and it’s oddly relaxing, for a bit, but Bentley’s excruciatingly aware of the trust he has in his friend.

 Then, of course, something goes wrong.

-

Sly realises halfway across to the blimp he hasn’t got enough height, and he isn’t going to make it. He’s not especially worried; he can just swing back around and climb up again. Except then a plane drops in front of him and a bullet crashes through the glider’s fabric and Sly gets spun off course.

 It’s a pure panic unlike anything he’s ever felt, and somehow, he manages to pull the glider in close as they slam into the side of the blimp, and Sly blindly scrambles for something to hold onto it; he grabs a rope dangling off the end and hangs there as he struggles to calm down.

 “Everything okay in there?” he manages.

 “ _ I think I’m going to throw up,”  _ Bentley moans, and Sly pulls himself up hand over hand and collapses thankfully onto the blimp’s small but blessedly solid walkway. He unzips his backpack and Bentley groggily slides out, and vomits up his sandwich.

 Sly helps Bentley up and they both rest for a couple of seconds.

 “Plane got the glider,” he explains. “That was real close.”

 Bentley takes a deep breath. They both ignore the pool of vomit next to them, and once both of them can walk, they head below deck and knock out the pilot.

 The Contessa clearly hasn’t spared anyone; there’s no-one else on board thank  _ God _ , and Bentley quickly assumes control.  Luckily, they make it to the tower without trouble. Sly tethers the blimp and they head inside.

 The terminal is on in that shadowy enclave behind that boarded up wall, and Sly peers through a gap to see the Contessa furiously talking with the Shadow Guards, who leave the room in short order. The Mindshuffler is on and beaming a terrible light with the Eyes, and Sly feels lead in his belly.

 “Don’t worry my dear,” she croons to Carmelita. “I still have time to finish with your readjustment.”

 “Let me out of here and I’ll readjust your face,” Carmelita spits, and then groans as the Contessa flicks a switch and the Mindshuffler’s light intensifies. But it doesn’t seem have the effect the Contessa wants.

 “Really, this would go so much quicker if you would just accept there’s no way out of this, Carmelita.” The Contessa sounds a little sharper now, and Carmelita cries as she flicks a couple of switches; Sly watches as the contraption Carmelita is strapped to stretches her limbs out.

  Sly turns to Bentley, who is already logged in to the terminal and setting to work. All he can do is watch.

 “I’ve never met such an impossible person in my life,” the Contessa tells her. “Arpeggio assured me this machine would dominate anyone’s mind with ease. Even the Cooper Gang bowed to me, and that was with much weaker contraptions than this!”

 Sly sees Carmelita grin weakly. “They’re low life criminals,” she manages. 

“And yet they take up all of your attention,” The Contessa says in amusement. “Or should I say- a particular member of their little gang takes up all of your attention?”

 Carmelita snarls.

 “You know my dear, even if you get out of here, your career is finished. Neyla is a sociopathic liar, and these are rumors that have long been creeping at the edge of your stellar record.”

 For once, Carmelita doesn’t have a response, and the Contessa looks triumphant.

The door swings open and Drummond comes in, looking thinner than Sly remembers.

 “They’ve breached the inner wall,” he says roughly, not even glancing at Carmelita. “Are you nearly done with her?”

 “She’s proving… difficult as ever,” the Contessa says reluctantly. “We may need to abandon her.”

 Drummond grins wide, and the Contessa waves her hand. “I’ll leave her in your… capable hands.”

 “Almost there,” Bentley mutters. 

 Sly swings his eyes to the shock pistol, sitting tantalisingly out of reach. Drummond drums his fingers on the bench as he turns his back to Carmelita and looks over what sharp and vicious tool to use, because of course Drummond would never use the quick way.

 “It’s been awhile, Inspector,” Drummond says softly. “Have you missed me?”

 Carmelita spits at him. He laughs.

 “I’m going to enjoy this,” Drummond promises her, and Sly’s heart is in his throat; his claws scrape against the wood.

 “ _ There _ ,” Sly hears Bentley say, and he presses a final key; Carmelita’s restraints unlock silently, and Sly’s heart pounds as he watches her freeze, then turn her head to her shock pistol. No-one turns around, no-one says anything, and she reaches over and grabs it, and sits up, out of the beam of the Mindshuffler.

 Carmelita doesn’t even waste time with a snappy remark; she shoots Drummond in the kneecap, and the dog howls and falls to the ground, shaking. The Contessa swings around and Carmelita stands up, looking furious and triumphant. Drummond moans in pain, red staining the floor; the usual non-wounding shot at this distance has actually punctured the skin, and Sly feels a savage glee.

 “Hands up,” Carmelita says coldly. “All of them.”

 The Contessa looks at Drummond, then back at her. “My dear, that was a clear violation of t-” 

 “Don’t talk to me about violations you  _ disgusting _ woman. Hands.  _ Up.” _

__ For a second, it looks like the Contessa is going to comply, but then she leaps over the control panel and  _ sprints _ .

 “I’ll be back for you later,” Carmelita snarls at Drummond, and gives chase.  

-

Bentley gently shoulders his friend out of the way and setting a small bomb. They huddle in the corner and with a  _ whoomph _ the wall explodes outwards in a spray of rotten wood shards. Drummond looks up in the middle of trying to stand and freezes at the sight of Sly, whose lips peel back feral as he leaps across the room to punch Drummond square in the jaw.

 Bentley gets to setting up the bad mojo bomb, but he keeps an eye on Sly.

 “You piece of shit,” his friend is snarling, holding Drummond up by the lapels. “Doesn’t feel so good being on the receiving end, does it?”

 Drummond is groaning, breath hitching, babbling incoherent apologies. Bentley looks away as Sly belts the dog’s shot knee with his cane, and Drummond screams, crumpling to the ground.

 “Sly,” he says. If Sly hears him, he doesn’t respond, and kicks Drummond in the ribs.

 “ _ Sly,” _ Bentley says sharply.

 His friend breathes heavily, and Bentley is painfully aware yet again of the long stretch of time in prison being tortured his friends suffered. Murray might be getting better, but Bentley gets the feeling Sly is carrying weight that’s starting to be too much to bear. Sly clears his throat.

 “Sorry, Bentley,” he says gruffly. 

 “I’m going to set the bomb on the Mindshuffler- drag Drummond out of the way and move back.”

 He sets it up and then joins Sly at the other side of the room behind the control panel; they plug their ears and Bentley hits the detonator.

It’s like a thousand people scream, and hot, angry wind rushes through the room, acrid red dust everywhere. Bentley coughs as he and Sly stand up. Spying a glint of gold a couple of feet away, Bentley bends down and picks up one of the Clockwerk eyes. 

 “I’ve got one, Sly- can you see where the other is? This smog is awful,” Bentley says, gagging a little as he stows the eye in his bag.

 “No worries, chaps,” says a dreadfully familiar voice. “It’s safely in hand.”

 A breeze through the broken wall clears the smog a little, and, of course, there’s Neyla.

 “Thanks for clearing out the Contessa,” she says casually, examining her claws. “Nothing I did could pry her away from the Clockwerk eyes.” Her eyes rest on Bentley’s backpack, and she shrugs. “One should be enough for the old bird,” she says to herself, and Bentley frowns-  _ what? _

__ Sly, meanwhile, is vibrating with a terrible energy. “Give it back, Neyla.”

 “The moment I saw that blimp up there while old Ironsides was chasing the Contessa down on the streets, I knew you must have been up to something,” Neyla continues as if he hadn’t spoken. “It’s nice to see you again, Sly,” she adds. “Are you still up for that date?”

 Sly roars, and leaps across the room, but she dodges out of the way with a laugh, and she’s gone from the room.

 “Take the blimp,” Sly snarls. “I’m going after Neyla.” And then he’s gone too.

 “But- the plan!” Bentley yells. “This wasn’t part of the plan!”

-

Once again, he’s chasing her across a rooftop at night, but this time, Sly is feeling hot under the collar for another reason. 

 She flings caustic and flirty remarks at him as they vault over arches and slide down wires, but Sly doesn’t reply to her; he gains slowly but surely, and then she leaps off a roof and glides away.

 “Fuck!” he curses, and then he’s sprinting alongside her across roofs, taking huge jumps and falls he wouldn’t usually risk, but he can’t let her win this time, he can’t, he  _ can’t _ . He remembers those moments of lust turned genuine interest, the moment he realised she had been playing him all along and his muscles are screaming but he somehow manages to round the corner and there she is, stuck in a web against the roof, the Clockwerk eye rolling away lazily.

 He stoops and picks it up, looking at it. It’s smaller than he expected, lighter, but it still sends a shiver down his spine. He thinks, briefly, of how many dead Coopers this eye saw, and feels faint. But there isn’t time for this, and he stows it in his backpack. 

 “Don’t you dare,” Neyla snarls. “It’s mine! It’s  _ mine!” _

__ He looks at her, her pretty face contorted in fury, and wonders how he ever found her alluring. All that anger is in his throat; he doesn’t even know where to begin. But he sees her eyes flicker to the side, the slightest expression of fear, and Sly rolls to the side as webbing crashes where he was just standing.

 “Actually, Mr. Cooper,” the Contessa says, long and dreadful, ‘The eye belongs to me.”

 A thud behind him, and Sly turns to see Neyla on the ground, watches her leap off the rooftop and glide away. He curses, but as furious as he is with Neyla, it’s a cold, cold anger that burns for the Contessa.

 “Like hell it does,” Sly says. “Where’s Carmelita? We were counting on her taking you out.”

 The Contessa shrugs. “Months of electroshock therapy and being strapped down means that adrenaline can only take you so far, Cooper. Maybe I’ll go find her after I’m done with you. I take the care of my patients very seriously.”

 Sly bares his teeth, spinning his cane. 

 “I wouldn’t call “months of electroshock therapy” taking care of your patients,” he shoots back, and Bentley crackles to panicked life in his ear:

_ “Sly, Murray, a plane hit the blimp, I’m going down, can you hear me, anyo-” _

__ The comm link cuts out, and Sly freezes. He can’t glide away, and if the Contessa’s on his tail, he’s no use to anyone-

 “ _ Sly, I’m on route in the tank right now to Bentley- I saw it go down, he managed to land it safely. Don’t worry!” _

__ He relaxes. 

 “I’ve no interest in your narrow interpretation of morality,” the Contessa is saying. “I’m above all of that.”

 “You think I’m going to give the Eye to someone that’s  _ above morality?” _ Sly laughs. 

 “Enough of this,” the Contessa says, as if he’s little more than an annoyance. “It’ll be just as easy to pry that Eye from your cold, dead hands!”

 And she lunges for him, but Sly’s already moving, hooking the cane and ripping her legs out from under her.

 “ _ Murray-”  _ Bentley begins.

__ “ _ Hands up, turtle,” _ Sly hears Neyla, and he groans internally; the Contessa takes this moment to viciously swipe at him while he’s off guard, and though he manages to duck out of the way, she slashes his backpack straps and it falls to the ground; the Clockwerk eye rolls out, and their eyes meet. 

 “ _ Guys, Neyla has the eye!”  _ Bentley yells.

Sly scrambles for it but the Contessa has already scooped it up and in a shot of webbing, she’s gone.

_ “Fuck!”  _ Sly yells. “Fuck!  _ Fuck! She’s got the eye, the Contessa has the eye!”  _ He shouts down the comm link, and starts sprinting back to ground level.

-

Murray hears both Sly and Bentley yelling down the commlink as he makes his way to Bentley, and he decides that Bentley needs his help first.

 “ _ Murray, Neyla’s in one of the Contessa’s tank with the Clockwerk eye!” _

__ “Are you sure you’re okay?”

 “ _ I’m fine, I’m fine- she’s heading north along the main street in the estate, the tank she’s in is battered to hell, shoot her down! _ ”

 Murray backs up and takes another street heading east. He feels… calm. Calm and good. He feels better, he thinks, he feels like the rock he’s always meant to be. A little cracked maybe, but strong and good. 

 He converges onto the main street and there she is in a tank that looks like it should be falling to pieces.

 Luck is on Murray’s side: on his first shot he manages to shoot out a tread. The tank veers and smashes into a wall and cracks down the middle, exposing the inside to the air.

 He drives up close to her, and gets out. He can see Neyla unconscious, a trickle of blood coming from her head, but otherwise okay. Murray thanks his lucky stars and opens her little pack. The Clockwerk eye she took from Bentley sits there, and he carefully zips it back up and unhooks the pack from her. 

 He feels bad leaving her there, but the majority of the conflict has moved further into the castle estate. Even as he hesitates, she stirs slightly and he quickly gets into his tank and leaves to go find Bentley.

 “Sly, I’ve got the eye back from Neyla. I’m going to get Bentley now- we’ll meet you back at the rendezvous point for extraction. “

 “ _ Okay,” _ Sly says, and he must be sprinting because he sounds winded, “ _ I’ve almost caught up with the Contessa now.” _

_ - _

He’s at the edge of endurance when he finally rounds a corner and the Contessa is about to climb into a tank. But then she looks up and sees him.

 He reaches out towards her, and she holds her hands up: the Clockwerk eye in one, and an odd little machine in the other. Something about the way it glints in the night, and he freezes, hypnotised. And the Contessa is talking, but he can’t hear her through the miasma of red that’s flowing gently towards him from that odd machine, and it envelops him, and it’s cold and hot and there’s lava and blood spreading across the floor as he peers through a crack in the closet door, his mother and father dead on the floor and that terrible, terrible silhouette, an owl’s hooded wings spreading across miles, Carmelita moaning in pain as a shadowy man with a fanged smile shocks her over and over-

 And then he blinks, dizzy, dropping to his knees, as Carmelita shoots the Contessa in the arm.

 The Contessa screams, outraged, and Sly dives and catches the Eye as the spider sinks to the ground, the electricity shuddering up and down her limbs.

 Carmelita looks pale and haggard, but her arms are steady as she lowers her shock pistol and looks at Cooper.

 “You freed me, didn’t you?” Carmelita says. 

 “Yes,” Sly says.

 Carmelita looks at him. “Is Neyla still in command?” She asks after a couple of seconds.

 “Yes,” Sly says again, cautiously. 

 They both hear the rumble of tanks- Neyla’s tanks.

 “They won’t believe me, will they?” Carmelita murmurs, and Sly’s heart breaks.

 “No,” he says. “I’m sorry, Carmelita.”

 She looks at him, and for a single second, he thinks she’s going to shoot him, but she lowers her pistol. He can see her starting to shake, now, and he reaches for her automatically, sensing she’s going into shock, and is startled when she  _ lets  _ him. He curls his arm around her waist, and her armrests over his shoulders. She smells stale, tired. From here, he can see those electrocution sores on her arms. He’s too worried for her to revel in her touch or think of how beautiful she is. He can feel through her thin prison wear how thin and weak she is, and it’s scary.

 “Don’t get any ideas, ringtail,” Carmelita mutters, as he helps her limp through the abandoned streets. 

 “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies.   

 “I’m not running from the cops,” she says.

 “I know,” he reassures her. “We’ll help you get out of the city-”

 “And then we’ll part ways,” she says firmly.

 “And then we’ll part ways,” he nods.

Several times they duck behind cover as stray officers and guards make their way to the inner estate, but they finally make it to the extraction point where the van is idling and Murray and Bentley are waiting.

 Bentley and Murray both raise their eyebrows at the sight of Carmelita, but say nothing.

 They get in the van, and they drive out of Prague as fast as they can.


	11. interlude: road trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the boys meander back to Paris, Carmelita in tow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This is just a fanwork; I am making no profit, just fun)
> 
> much quicker than i expected! it'll probably be a good while before I get the next one up after this. bear with me!! i'm definitely going to finish this fic, come hell or highwater :)

Making their way out of Prague is a slow, painful process in which they drive like normal citizens and break no laws at all. An hour in, Carmelita collapses comatose in the back; it takes Bentley several minutes to calm Sly and remind him how exhausted Carmelita must be, and his friend resorts to sitting in the back with her, watching her and making sure she’s okay.

 Bentley, frankly, is surprised the Inspector even agreed to come with them. The Contessa didn’t manage to brainwash her, but he suspects that final remark about her career might well have cowed her, at least. In the meantime, all they can do is get out, and hope Carmelita doesn’t become difficult once she’s recovered.

 It’s with a great sigh of relief that they cross the border out of Prague, and head on the outskirts of Germany to make their way back to Paris. They camp several nights and enjoy the lush greenery before they start moving again, and it’s on the third night that Carmelita comes awake with a cry, startling them all out of their dinner as she appears, bedraggled and shock pistol in hand, aiming at them with trembling hands.

 Bentley and Sly freeze, but Murray very slowly picks up some food and offers it to her.

 She stares wildly at him and then back at the freshly cooked sausage they picked up from a small town butcher a couple of hours ago, and reaches out. Bentley suspects she had refused to eat anything if she could help it while in the Contessa’s grasp, and sure enough Carmelita can barely finish her second sausage as her stomach struggles to make room.

 “Where are we?” She says between mouthfuls, staring at them distrustfully. She sits next to Murray, who seems somehow, out of all three of them, the least threatening. “How long have I been asleep?”

 “We’re in Germany, along the border,” Bentley says slowly, as he carefully spears another sausage to cook on the fire. “ And you’ve been asleep for three days.”

 Carmelita seems to sag a little in relief, but she looks at Sly distrustfully.

 “Did you steal this food?” She asks him. Sly looks startled, and mildly offended. 

 “Why would we steal food?” he says. “We’re not exactly hard up on cash.”

 “We bought it from this great little butcher,” Murray tells her. “Real nice guy, he spoke French pretty well.”

 Carmelita looks at all of them through squinted eyes. 

 “You didn’t steal anything?” she says suspiciously. “You didn’t make any sneaky heists while I was asleep?”

 Sly looks at Bentley in disbelief.

 “No,” Murray says, laughing. “This is our time off. Heists are hard work, you know.”

 Carmelita makes a grunt of disbelief, and takes a long swig from a water bottle Sly wordlessly proffers her. 

 “We’ve got a portable shower rig you can use,” Murray says. “Sly and Bentley bought some clothes for you too at the last town.”

 Carmelita looks at Murray bemusedly. “Thanks,” she says slowly. 

 “Bentley’s got it set up around the back of the van, it’s got a privacy curtain and everything,” Murray says cheerfully. “There should be a fresh towel or two and some soap nearby.”

 Carmelita looks like she’s about to say something, but nods, and disappears behind the van.

 “I can’t believe she thinks we stole sausages,” Sly mutters quietly. “ _ Sausages! _ And not even gourmet sausages. Sausages worth less than five dollars!”

 “You’re just upset she isn’t swooning into your arms,” Murray says good naturedly, which breaks past Sly’s annoyance. 

 “I’m more wounded as a master thief to be honest,” he says with a laugh.

 Bentley speaks quietly as they hear the shower rig start up. “When we get back to Paris, we aren’t going back to our house. I say we go to a safehouse way out on the edge of town.”

 “Of course,” Sly says. “I may be lovestruck, but I’m not an idiot.”

 Bentley shakes his head. “Sly… just don’t get any ideas, okay? She’s only here because she has nowhere else to go.”

 “Ouch,” Sly says. “I know Bentley, jeez.”

 Bentley softens a bit at that. “It’s just… she doesn’t have the best track record of being open minded.”

 “We’ll see.”

 “Sly,” Bentley says.

 “We’ll see,” the racoon repeats with a smile. They fall into silence, and a good ten minutes later Carmelita comes out in a thick pair of tracksuit pants and a jumper, looking clean. Her short hair is spiky still from the water, and Bentley sees how Sly’s smile is a little goofy, genuine.

 Carmelita sits back down next to Murray, who she seems to dislike the least, and she clears her throat.

 “So,” she says flatly. 

 Bentley opens his mouth but Sly gets there first.

 “The Contessa’s been arrested, obviously,” he says, gesturing with his skewer. “Neyla found a slew of illegal documents when they raided the estate. Drummond’s pleaded guilty for a lighter sentence in exchange for information, like the little slimeball he is.”

 Bentley can see Carmelita doesn’t like this, but she just nods stiffly.

 “Neyla’s been promoted to captain as a PR move,” Sly continues, and Carmelita bares her teeth in anger, clenched fists, and her tail swishes in agitation. 

 “The plan in the meantime,” Bentley says, looking at Sly sternly, “Is that we make our way back to France and recuperate in one of our safe houses, which I can assure you we have many of. You’re welcome to accompany us.”

 Carmelita thinks about this, and they all see her flinch as she reaches to play with a braid that isn’t there anymore.

 “I will accompany you that far,” she says eventually. “I have no choice. I have no clothes, no money… Nothing.”

 Sly rubs the back of his neck, and says gently, “When we get back to France, I could try and retrieve some of your belongings? Bentley said that they’ve locked off your apartment for further investigation, and haven’t confiscated anything yet-”

 “Of course they haven’t,” Carmelita mutters. “Incompetents, the lot of them. If it were me I would never have handed me off to the Contessa-” she stops herself and takes a deep breath.  “I would appreciate that,” she says, looking as if the words pain her greatly. “But if you  _ steal _ anything-”

 “I’m a master thief, Carmelita, not a pervert,” Sly says with a little smile. “I highly doubt there’s anything in your apartment worth millions.”

 “Don’t get fresh with me, racoon,” she says a little late, clearly unable to come up with a snappy retort. She looks at Murray. “Where will I sleep?” she asks.

 Murray looks startled. “Uh, there’s a spare sleeping bag and bed mat in the van,” he starts, but she’s already stalking over there.

 “I really don’t understand you,” Bentley says to Sly, who has his chin in his hand and is smiling at the fire.

-

None of them seem to understand it, but Inspector Fox sticks herself to Murray’s side. Murray thinks it’s maybe because Sly and Bentley are a lot more capable of general sneakery than him. Bentley thinks it’s because Murray reminds Carmelita of her younger cousin. Sly thinks it’s because she’s wary of getting close to Sly with their history and undeniable sexual tension.

 (They’re all correct).

 Their road trip continues. Usually they’d be able to knock this out in fourteen hours of driving, but there’s an unspoken agreement that they stop every couple of hours, get some sun, exercise a little. What should have been two days has turned into six. Day four finds Murray and Carmelita fishing peaceably next to each other as Bentley goes for a swim and Sly lounges over head in a tree.

 “I don’t like fish that much,” Murray says to Carmelita, who looks startled, perhaps by the casualness of his conversation.

 “I do,” she says. “My mother used to make fish paella all the time. She used to add in extra chill.”

 “Sounds good,” Murray says. “At the orphanage, they used to make us risotto sometimes. That’s kinda like paella, right?”

 Carmelita looks at him and says with an odd tone, “Yes. It’s similar.”

 “Bentley,” Sly yells overhead, and the turtle looks up at him from his comfortable position floating in the lake.

 “Sly,” Bentley warns, “I swear, if you jump on me-”

 But Sly is already gleefully bombing into the water, sending Bentley ricocheting away in rough waves; he breaks the surface and Bentley splashes at him.

 “Guys,” Murray says in exasperation. “You’re scaring away the fish.”

 “Murray, you don’t even  _ like _ fish,” Sly says.

 “I like fishing though,” Murray mumbles, but he’s smiling.

-

The next day at dinner, Murray goes to bed early, and it’s just Carmelita, Bentley and Sly around the fire. Carmelita looks vaguely on edge sitting there, as if she expects them to bust out a long roll of schematics and start planning something.

 Instead, Bentley and Sly reminisce about old heists.

 “Remember that job we pulled in Germany with the-”

 “Don’t remind me about the beer,” Bentley says. “I beg you.”

 Surprising all of them (including herself), Carmelita pipes up: “What beer?”

 “We were much younger,” Sly says. “Maybe nineteen. Murray was going through a beer stage, and it was getting close to his birthday, and we thought hey, let's do an easy little heist and steal a van worth of the most expensive beer in Germany.”

 “Nowhere near as expensive as wine,” Bentley sighs, “But we would have been stealing approximately $400,000 worth of beer. About a hundred bottles all up.”

 “Anyway, it’s immediately a shambles. My German wasn’t great -still isn’t- so before I can even scope out the place disguised as a beer expert, I’m exposed. Bentley has to come in. And Bentley’s never done a day of fieldwork in his life.”

 “To be fair,” Bentley says. “You assured me you were fluent.”

 “Only when it comes to talking about food,” Sly grins. “Anyway- Bentley comes in and they’re letting him try all this beer, and Bentley, who is an  _ extreme _ light weight, gets drunk and forgets to actually do any recon.”

 Bentley grumbles, and Sly’s grin widens. “Bentley comes out, passes out into my arms with no photos, nothing. I have to leave him in the van, and stake the place out old school with binoculars, because I don’t even know the password to start up his laptop and search for schematics myself.”

 Carmelita’s face crinkles. “Wait, this sounds familiar.”

 Sly nods. “I bet it does, it was all over the news. I go into the brewery, accidentally set off three alarms, and break about five hundred bottles worth of beer in panic and drench myself.” He shudders just remembering it; the smell of hops had stuck in his fur for months. “I have no schematics, I have no back up, they’ve got armed security guards on route, I’m  _ drenched _ in beer. I manage to snag a six pack, jump out the window and roll down the hill into the van, where Bentley is waiting with a huge hangover. We get back to the safehouse, slap a bow on the beer and hand it to Murray, who, bless him, has a single sip and says, very nicely, that it tastes awful.”

 Carmelita laughs, just once, and Sly stares at her. She claps a hand over her mouth as if startled by the noise. 

 “It was a debacle,” Bentley says, missing the exchange completely. “I haven’t touched alcohol since.”

 “And I  _ hate _ beer. Even the smell is enough to make me want to puke,” Sly grins, poking at the fire a little. “Man, Bentley. That was six years ago now! I can’t believe we used to do that sort of stuff.”

 “It feels like only yesterday to me,” Bentley admits, yawning. “I’m going to head to bed. I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

 Sly and Carmelita sit there for a while quietly, enjoying the fire. Sly searches for a topic of conversation, painfully aware that this is the first time they’ve ever been alone together in a situation that didn’t involve her levelling a gun at him. All he can think about is that tango, but he highly doubts she wants to talk about such an erotically charged situation. 

 Instead, he watches her out of the corner of his eye, watches those hands reach for that thick braid that isn’t there anymore, the flashes of anger and embarrassment when she realises what she’s doing.

 “It was awful that they did that to you,” he says after she does this a few times. She looks up at him, wary. He pokes at the fire. “Drummond’s a sociopathic piece of shit. The Contessa… I’ve dealt with people like her before. But Drummond was fucked in the head.” His voice becomes a little rough, and he looks away, embarrassed, not wanting to break the fragile peace between them.

 But Carmelita speaks.

 “I think I was starting to lose it a little towards the end,” she says quietly. “They teach you at the academy how to deal with pain and manipulation, but towards the end it was getting really hard.” She reaches for that braid again. 

 “It’ll grow back eventually,” Sly says, trying to say something comforting. 

 “No- it’s not that,” she says, frustrated with herself. “It’s- my mom loved my hair. And I thought I was better than… than caring about that.”

 Sly looks at her carefully. He doesn’t know anything about her parents besides what’s on her files: that they died just after she finished high school.

 “Emotions are hard,” he offers lightly.

 She sighs, running her hands through her shorn hair. “At least I won’t have to spend money on treatments anymore.”

 Sly desperately, desperately wants to tell her that she looks as beautiful as ever, but he feels it’s somewhat poor taste to reduce a physical reminder of her traumatic months in prison to whether or not she looks attractive. 

 “Well,” he says haltingly, “You still look like you could kick my ass.”

 She smiles; somehow, he said the right thing. 

 “I’m going to go to bed now,” she says.

 “I’ll join you,” he says without thinking, and then flushes. “Sorry- I meant- you know-”

 “I know,” Carmelita says, and something about the way she says it sends fire rolling in the pit of his stomach.

-

They arrive in the outskirts of Paris, in a little shack that they quickly set up shop in,  spending the next couple of days generally plugging back in and monitoring the Interpol communication lines. Sly breaks into Carmelita’s apartment and brings her back some clothes, her valuables, wallet and phone. 

 “You’ll need to ditch those, you know,” Bentley tells her before she even powers the phone back on. “The moment you use them, they’ll track you down.”  He opens a draw, fishes around, and takes out a cheap disposable cell phone, giving it to her. “Use this for now.”

 “What about my cards? How am I going to withdraw any money?”

 Bentley laughs. “Give me a day and I can have your life savings transferred into an account safely for you. Nothing illegal, I promise,” he adds hastily, as she glowers. He has it done in fifteen hours, and two days later a new, entirely legitimate bank card arrives for Carmelita.

 Four days after they arrive at the safehouse, at dinner, Carmelita clears her throat over the pizza they ordered.

 “I’m going to head out tomorrow morning,” she says, looking down at her plate. “I’ll give you a five day head start. But then I have to come after you.”

 “Five days?” Sly whistles. “That’s generous, we’ll take that.”

 “It’s been nice getting to know you better, Carmelita,” Murray says genuinely. 

 “Well,” she says, clearing her throat. “Thanks. For helping me out.”

 “Anytime,” Sly says, smiling graciously at her. She seems a little flustered, and doesn’t look back up from her plate for the rest of the meal.

 -

The next morning, she’s up early, but Sly, who hasn’t slept that night, is sitting at the table, head in his hand as he reads a book. The moment she steps foot out of the bedroom, he hears her.

 She creeps carefully, but unfortunately, she has to come through the kitchen area to leave, and she stops when she sees him there.

 He doesn’t know what to say to her. There’s too much to say, really. Too much to say with too much history between them.

 “Thank you,” she says quietly. He closes his book and stands up.

 “Carmelita, I-” he drags a hand down his face. “I just want to say I’m sorry. For the dance. In India. It was just meant to be a diversion, I didn’t mean to trick you, or get you arrested-”

  Carmelita holds up a hand, and he falls silent.

  “You’re… a very talented dancer,” she says, and he knows that’s the closest she’ll ever get to acknowledging the entire incident.

  “Might we… dance again?” She raises a brow, and he hastens to add: “Someday?”

  She considers this. “I won’t be so easy to fool again,” Carmelita says eventually, a warning. “But... I would not say no to another dance like that.”

 She walks towards the door, and she passes him, her arm brushing his. That undeniable connection, and he watches her open the door; the soft morning light creeps in with a cold breeze.

 “Pass my thanks to Bentley and Murray,” she says. “I… I enjoyed my time with you.”

_ With us, or with me? _ He thinks, but then she’s gone, and it’s just him in that kitchen once more.


	12. He Who Tames the Iron Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's getting colder and colder, or; the boys go thrill seeking

They relocate every couple of weeks to a new safehouse out of habit while Bentley trawls through database after database trying to cobble together information on their next mark; the reclusive Jean Bison.

 Sly spends each day much the same: wake up exhausted, do a morning workout with Murray to try and wake up properly, a rooftop run across the neighbourhood, lunch, poring over the Thievius Raccoonus, and then dinner and another sleepless night. Rinse and repeat. 

On his roof top runs, he finds himself looking at every corner for Carmelita, and that run gets a little further. At first it’s mostly caution and a little pining, but after two weeks it’s distracting; he falls off a roof and sprains his ankle, and realises he’s ten miles from the safehouse. Murray has to drive out and come get him.

 “Enough, Sly,” Bentley says firmly, looking up from wrapping his swollen foot.   “You need to stop.”

 “Stop what?”

“No- I mean, you need to  _ rest. _ ”

Sly looks away. “I’m fine,” he mutters. 

 Bentley throws his hands up in the air. “Sly,” he says. “We all live in a very small house. It’s hard to miss that you’re not getting enough sleep.” He pauses. “I can hear you having nightmares through the walls.”

 “I’m fine,” Sly protests. “You know me. Mister cool. I’m fine.”

 Bentley eyes him and throws up his hands again, muttering something along the lines of “Can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped” and tapes the wrapping down.

 “No walking on that for a week,” he tells Sly. “Okay?”

 Sly crosses his arms. “Fine,” he mutters.

Which is how he spends the entire week poring over the old family heirloom, looking at those winged silhouettes in sketches, old photos. He stares for hours at his father’s handwriting. It has the same little flicks at the ends of his “a”’s that Sly does, the same slight smudge on the dot of the “i”’s. His father’s pages are heavily based around science rather than techniques like the spire jump, around theft through code and metal. Several times, Bentley has referenced these pages and cited his father’s intelligence and creativity with technology.

 But towards the end of the pages, his father’s writing takes a different turn, detailing his investigations into an enemy that has haunted him, with odd schematics of a small chip.  Sly knows that surely, this must be Clockwerk, but suddenly his father’s pages end. 

 That terrible night in the volcano, Sly had recovered those lost pages, but he suspects even now that Clockwerk destroyed more pages that detailed his weaknesses.

 In the entire book, there’s only one other mention of Clockwerk, though not by that name. The entry is by Henriette Cooper, the swashbuckling pirate thief of the 1600’s. She speaks of a strange enemy with metal wings and glowing eyes that ambushed her at sea, attempting to lure her overboard like a siren. The only thing that saved her was her missing eye, she theorised. She was able to shoot him down, and assumed he drowned. Of course, Clockwerk survived, and Henriette died not long after; presumably, his second attempt on her life was much more successful.

 Sly was twenty three when they killed Clockwerk. At the time, he thought that was it, that he could dust his hands of this strange, loathsome enemy and finally walk away. Now, at twenty five, he thinks of Clockwerk’s last words and shivers.

_ You will never be rid of me. _

 Clockwerk’s motives chill him too, and remind him, somehow, of Drummond; the motives not of a wronged man, but a sick one. Someone who can not be reasoned with. 

 They’ve been taking the Clockwerk parts with them as they go, dismantled carefully and stored in several boxes in the van. Bentley had considered leaving them across various safe houses, but Sly had shook his head: it was too risky, a deep fear in his gut that another Klaww Gang will get a hold of them. He couldn’t let even a common  _ pickpocket  _ get their hands on them. Now, though, he wonders if they shouldn’t be trying to destroy them.

 He mentions this to Bentley later that week, who shakes his head.

 “These parts, Sly- they’re made from something I don’t understand.” (Bentley says this with great reluctance.) “It reminds me of the Mindshuffler. Something is keeping this parts invulnerable, and I don’t know what.”

 “What, like magic, you mean?” Sly asks, frowning.

 “No- maybe-” Bentley sighs. “Clockwerk was literally thousands of years ahead of his time. Maybe it  _ was _ magic, back then in Egypt. But as technology improved, I think he began tampering with magic and metal. He had thousands of years to perfect this. It’ll take a lot more than a couple of months for me to figure out how to destroy this for good.”

 Disheartening, but if anyone can figure it out, it’s Bentley.

-

A month of patience, and Bentley’s tireless data crunching gives results, and also clears some past mysteries of the Klaww Gang. Bentley summons them into the kitchen area, and he flicks the projector on.

 “So, I suspected Jean-Bison was the one transporting spices from Rajan to the other members of the gang, and I was right,” Bentley says triumphantly, flicking through a couple of records stored in Jean-Bison’s very reclusive network. “He’s been using his trains to get them from India to France and Prague. It’s been borderline impossible to get this information; I had to track the main spice shipments to even figure out where his main camp is.”

 “Why?” Sly asks him, and Bentley grimaces.

 “Well, keeping in tradition of the Klaww Gang continuing to defy science, Jean-Bison was born in 1851.”

 “That would make him nearly a hundred and fifty years old,” Sly says slowly. 

 “He doesn’t  _ look _ that old,” Murray says in confusion, as Bentley flicks to a photo of Jean-Bison from Rajan’s feast.

 Bentley clicks again, and there’s a painting of Jean-Bison- dated 1870.

 “He isn’t. He’s roughly fifty or so. During the Gold Rush, he went travelling through Canada and got buried alive in an avalanche, where he froze solid.” Bentley rubs the bridge of his snout. “You have no idea the amount of searching I had to do to find this information. Apparently, he just “thawed out”- but I suspect that the Contessa and Arpeggio had a hand in resurrecting him.”

 “So he’s a zombie,” Sly says flatly. 

 “No,” Bentley says. “Definitely not. He was preserved perfectly. All they had to do was get him pumping again. And between the Contessa’s meddling in magic and Arpeggio’s superior technology, I can only assume they succeeded.”

 “If he isn’t a zombie, what is he?” Murray asks. “Can he still.. you know… die?”

Bentley hums. “I assume so. Like I said, it isn’t like he was a decomposed corpse. Everything was intact. I suspect though, that he’ll be remarkably tough to harm.”

 “Because they magicked him up?” Sly asks.

 “No, because he’s a tough old man from an era where bison were roughly the size of a car.” Bentley clears his throat. “In any case, Jean-Bison hasn’t really adapted well to the modern age; he hardly has paper records, let alone digital ones. He’s got the old mentality of claiming the “Wild North”, which basically means he’s an ecological nightmare. He’s damming up rivers, cutting down entire forests… the only reason he hasn’t been shut down is because of the shockingly large amount of bribery Arpeggio seems to be doing on his behalf.”

 “Sounds like a bad dude,” Murray comments, but Sly shakes his head.

 “Sounds to me like he’s being manipulated, right Bentley?”

 Bentley points his stick pointer at Sly, looking pleased. “Nailed it. For his time, he’d be hailed a hero; he’s just doing what he knows. Arpeggio, however, is using that destruction as a way to increase spice shipments. Rajan may be gone, but spice is still in production.”

 “But the Contessa’s out of commission,” Sly says slowly. “Why are they still doing spice shipments? What use could there be for them?”

 Bentley shakes his head. “I don't know. I haven’t been able to access Arpeggio’s databases yet, and Jean-Bison, naturally, has minimal computer systems. He’s a paper kind of guy. I’m hoping we can find that out, to be honest with you, because something fishy is going on.”

 “What Clockwerk parts does he have?” Murray asks.

Bentley exhales. “A lot of them. He has the Lungs, the Stomach, and the Talons.”

 “Jesus,” Sly exclaims. “What does a low-tech guy like Jean-Bison need that many parts for?”

 Bentley shrugs. “That’s what we’re going to find out. Jean-Bison moves a lot through Canada, but he always goes back to the main camp- Nunavat Bay. It’s the furthest northern region, and it is going to be  _ cold.” _

__ “Great. More cold. Just what I needed,” Sly grumbles.

 “We’ll be leaving in a couple of weeks. I suggest you pack warm, and pack  _ heavy.”  _ Bentley pauses. “We’re going to be going in very blind on this one guys. It’s going to be tough.”

 He doesn’t like it, it feels like these heists are spinning ever more wildly out of control. 

 He doesn’t know about Murray or Sly, but it feels like only a matter of time before their luck runs out.

-

Getting the van to Canada is an Event, capital “E”, that involves a lot of bribery. Bribing border patrol in India to save thousands is easy; in Canada, after Murray hands thousands of dollars worth of untraceable disposable VISA cards to the boat captain, the sea patrol, the border patrol and then finally to the boat captain once more, they decide next time they’ll suck it up and just go the legal route. It’s a long boat trip, one that Murray (who still gets quite seasick) spends mostly sleeping while Bentley gets deep into data trawling.

 During the ten day trip there from England, Sly spends a lot of time on deck, watching the sea churn, trying to empty his head of the images stacked up in it. It’s freezing cold up there, but there’s something good about it, a fresher cold that Prague lacked. Buttoned up in several jackets and thermal pants, the contrast of warmth and cold is enjoyable, somehow.

 On the way there, Bentley joins him above deck with some unsurprising news.

“Carmelita’s not far behind us,” he says. 

“How do you know?”

“I may have given her a phone with a tracking device.”

 Sly looks disapproving. “That’s cheating, Bentley.”

 Bentley rolls his eyes. “Usually I indulge your romantic notions about Carmelita, Sly, but we’d be fools not to keep track of her. She purchased a ticket to Toronto, where I assume she’ll be making her way by bus up to Jean Bison’s main camp.”

 “Do you think she’s following us?”

 Bentley shakes his head. “Carmelita’s a very intelligent cop, but she’s too caught up in her moral code to delve into the underworld and bribe someone, or attempt to hack our systems. And even if she  _ did _ manage that, I’d know instantly.” He shows Sly some old scans of her Interpol files on his laptop; covered in notes. “No, I think she’s just doing some clever guesswork. She knows it’s just Jean-Bison and Arpeggio left, and considering how difficult Arpeggio is to pin down, it just makes sense that we would be going after Jean-Bison next.” 

 “What time is she slated to arrive up there?” 

 Bentley hums. “I’d say a few days after us, give or take a couple of hours. We’ll need to set up and hide out quickly. The town Jean-Bison’s using as a base of operations isn’t small, but it isn’t big, either.”

 He goes back down into the comfort of their cabins, leaving Sly to think. By the time they get there, it’ll have been almost two months since he saw her. 

 Their time together… changed something. He’s always found Carmelita attractive and intelligent, obviously; He’s got working eyes in his head after all. But Carmelita seems more real, now. He knows that she snores a little, that she doesn’t like cheap ham, that she takes her coffee black with one sugar. In his mind, she’s expanded as a person, filling out dimensions.

 He wonders if it’s the same for her too. 

-

When his feet touch land, Murray is extremely thankful. He can put up with trips by boat, but he comes out several pounds lighter and  _ hungry. _

 The drive up to the little town is an easy couple of hours. They crank the heater and relax, watching the scenery go by. They’ve been to Canada a couple of times, but haven’t ever seen the wilder side of it. The snow, the towering trees, the frozen over lakes. It’s the start of spring, but it hasn’t quite reached Canada properly yet.

 The town itself is ramshackle, but charming; a seaside town, with tall, salt whipped houses and buildings. They’re staying in a nondescript little cabin on the edge of town with a good heating system that Bentley’s rented anonymously. Jean-Bison’s camp on the side of the town closeby.   

 Setting up is a lot quicker than usual (likely because they’re all freezing). Once everything’s inside and Bentley’s computer equipment is moved where he needs it, Murray puts on a disguise and slips down to the store to get them some packets of instant noodles and soups.

 The town folk are friendly enough, but luckily don’t ask him too many questions. Murray’s awful at keeping up disguises, so he just mumbles something in an affected accent and takes his bags of shopping back to the cabin, where Sly’s stoking a fire with the wood left by the last resident.

 “What’s the town like?” Sly asks him, looking up from the flames.

 “Quiet, but nice enough,” Murray replies, getting the kettle going. “Plenty of tall buildings for you.”

 “Nice,” Sly says, poking at the fire again. “Any sign of Carmelita?”

 “No,” Murray says. “Isn’t she meant to arrive in a couple of days?”

 Sly shrugs. “A man can hope.”

-

The next morning, Sly is up bright and painfully early, a thick woolen beanie on as he crouches on top of the house in the dark.

 People are starting to head out towards the camp for work, but with the streets poorly lit, there’s no danger of him being seen. 

 Sly shifts on his haunches uncomfortably, waiting for Bentley (still struggling to open his eyes) to get the comm link going. He can’t wear proper snow boots if he wants to stay quiet, so he has three pairs of socks on and his boots are feeling a little tight, to say the least.

   “ _ Alright Sly, _ ” Bentley yawns down the line. “ _ Head out east into the wilderness through town. There’ll be a large cabin down the road- stay off the road, there’s an old trail that’ll take you there. _ ”

 The co-ordinates ping up in his binocucom, and Sly makes his way there as his night vision slowly kicks in, painfully aware of snow crunching underfoot. No-one else is on the trails, of course; every sensible person is in their warm cars.

 Several times, he hears the roar of trains. It gets louder as he crests a hill, panting a little as he warms up and stretches his limbs out properly. Coming to the top, he climbs one of the few trees left around the place to get a better view.

 What he sees is gruesome; several train lines, incredibly uneconomically laid out, tree stumps everywhere. There’s a couple of craggy caves further out, but he can see the main area; old wooden buildings, guards and workers galore with lines and lines of old gas lanterns. Frankly, the entire camp looks like a fire waiting to happen.

 He snaps a picture for Bentley, and searches for the main cabin. It’s set a little ways back on a hill, right next to a train line coming through a rough hewn hole in the mountainside. Sly climbs back down and skirts the camp area, scaling the mountainside hand over hand. He’s not too worried about falling (Bentley’s patched the glider up) and he’s trying out Bentley’s latest gadget; a pair of climbing gloves modelled after fly and lizard hands. The gloves are oddly sticky and grip perfectly; he scales the thing quite easily, enjoying the burn in his arms, and comes up on the side of the cabin. 

 It looks  _ old _ . He says this to Bentley, who laughs.

 “ _ It may seem rustic, but don’t be fooled _ ,” he advised. “ _ That little cabin is the control center for his train empire.” _

__ “I can’t see any ways to sneak in,” Sly murmurs.

 “ _ Jean-Bison has a pretty reliable schedule. Right now, he’ll be doing his first morning rounds of the camp. Just head in through the front; you’ll have about twenty minutes to get in, and get out.” _

__ Sly hates the front door, but he swallows his thieving pride and tries the door handle; it’s unlocked,. He shakes his head before walking in and locking the door behind him.

 He’s hit with a wall of heat from the flames roaring in the fireplace and immediately starts sweltering in his coats. The lamps aren’t lit, and overall, if it weren’t for the gross misappropriation of the Inuit cultural art on the walls, it’d be quite cosy. The sort of place Sly can imagine cuddling up with Carmelita in while they drink mulled wine by the fire.

 A thought in his head, unbidden, of them stretched out naked by the fire, and Sly swallows, feeling like there’s three fires in the room instead of one.

 “ _ I need you to take some photos of the train routes,” _ Bentley tells him, snapping him out of this delectable daydream. Sly can see them unfurled on a large desk; as he takes a photo of the last one, someone starts fumbling with the lock.

 Quickly casting an eye around, he scales one of the supporting pillars and settles on a beam stretching across the high ceiling, out of sight. Even if someone lights the gas lamps, he’ll be well concealed without any daylight coming through the windows.

 Just as he settles into position, Jean-Bison finally gets the door open.

 “I thought I left that door unlocked,” the hulking bison mutters to himself, shrugging off his jacket. “I swear, losing my memory already. Just like my old man.” He settles a huge staff against the door.  Sly looks at him, at that swaggering walk and the scars in his fur, the sheer bulk of him, and is very glad he’s concealed. The simple mobile phone sitting on his desk rings, and he strains his hearing as the bison answers it.

 “Howdy there Arpeggio,” he grunts, sitting down behind his desk. “I’ll just put you on the speaker-phone, hold on.”

 Sly sends his blessings as the bison awkwardly grapples with the phone, and suddenly Arpeggio’s voice fills the room. Sly quickly flicks on the broadcast on his binocucom so Bentley can hear too.

 “- _ told you my dear man, you can carry the phone with you, you know. _ ”

 “I know, I know,” Jean-Bison says, sounding unconvinced. He starts pacing around the room. “I like my hands free is all. While I’ve got you, are you still on schedules to pick up that “Northern Lights” uh, whatchamacall it, the battery?”

 “ _ We’ll be there by the end of the week, Sunday afternoon _ .”

 “Good to hear,”  Jean-Bison grunts, taking a poker to the fire. “I’m still mighty keen to take a look at that Clockwerk brain and buy it off ya, you know.”

 Arpeggio sounds affronted. “ _ Really, my good man? You’ve already got the lion’s share of the parts, won’t you leave my meager brain? What use have you anyway for it? It won’t power a train! _ ”

 “Easy there partner, you’re working yourself into a lather,” Jean-Bison laughs. “I just figure, I’ve made good use of them so far, they’re powering the trains just fine! I figure, I’m sure I could put the brain to work too.”

 Arpeggio laughs a little sourly. “ _ Well, you’re quite resourceful, but the brain stays on the blimp, with me. Although _ ,” the bird amends, “ _ When I collect the battery, I might be…  _ persuaded  _ to give you a peek _ .”

 “Sounds good to me,” the bison grunts. “Is the hypnomachine on yer blimp working?” 

 “ _ A blimp, of course, no wonder it’s been so hard to track him down _ ,” Bentley mumbles.

 “ _ Yes, it’s perfectly calibrated and waiting to go. It may be just you and me, my friend, but between Dimitri’s spice coated food and the Contessa’s specifications, all we need now is the battery, and, well, Paris will be under our thumb. _ ” 

 “ _ What?”  _ Bentley says in loud confusion through the comm link. Sly winces.

  There’s a noise like Arpeggio is clucking his tongue, and he lowers his voice. “ _ It’s a blasted shame we don’t have the Clockwerk Eyes anymore, but there’s not much we can do about that.” _

 “Have you got any news about that racoon gang?”

 “ _ Not a word, they’re proving exceptionally difficult to find. Keep an eye out, my good man. I suspect you’re up next on their list.” _

__ “I’d like to see them try,” Jean-Bison says. 

 “ _ Yes, I’d pay good money to watch,”  _ Arpeggio says merrily. “ _ You’ve got your train plans well stashed away though of course, just in case, correct?” _

__ “Well, sure do,” Jean-Bison says. “In my trophy fi-”

 “No, no,” Arpeggio cries, cutting him off. “They might be listening in, devilish as they are. I trust you’ve got everything under control, my friend.”

 “Sorry,” Jean-Bison rumbles. “You think I’d be used to these little phones by now, huh!” 

 “Indeed,” Arpeggio says drolly. “In any case, I’ll see you at the end of this week. Ta-ta.”

 “See you then,” Jean-Bison says, and Arpeggio hangs up.

 “ _ I reckon he meant to say “trophy fish”,” _ Bentley says in his ear. Sly looks around and sure enough, over the fireplace is a huge fish with what looks like pieces of parchment sticking out. He wrinkles his nose.

 Below him, Jean-Bison is rummaging through his desk. “Can’t go without the essentials,” he mutters, and pulls out a packet of matches and a couple of strips of jerky. Seemingly satisfied, he shrugs his coat back on and collects that huge staff, then closes the door behind him.

 “That,” Sly says, “Was incredibly convenient.”

“ _ Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth _ ,” Bentley says. “ _ Why don’t you take a look in the gift fish’s mouth though _ ?”  

 He crosses the wooden struts and reaches inside the fish, grimacing a little. It’s dry of course, and all the guts have been removed, but it’s really kitsch and still smells a little like carp. Sure enough though, he pulls out the plans and photographs them for Bentley before rolling them up and putting them back in the fish’s mouth, and quickly leaving the cabin before Jean-Bison can come back.

 “ _ Alright, judging from those blueprints, I reckon they’re being auto-piloted by a satellite dish in the camp somewhere. Can you see anything?” _

__ Sly squints at the near by hills, and sure enough, a surprisingly high tech looking satellite dish sits on top of a peak near the main camp area. He sends a photo to Bentley.

 “ _ No wonder I couldn’t find it,”  _ Bentley mutters. _ “That looks like something Arpeggio’s made custom. I need you to get up there and use one of the splicers I gave you to hook the binocucom up to it so I can hack into it.” _

__ Sly heads back into the camp, watching as one of the trains rolls into camp and slows to a stop. It’s a fearsome looking thing, and the hulking guards load it up with tons and tons of crates full of wood.

 He makes it to the top of the peak pretty easy, and Sly makes a note to thank Bentley for the gloves when he gets back. Slotting the splicer in, he sits and waits while Bentley does his thing.

“ _ Mm _ ,” Bentley says after a couple of minutes. “ _ Odd. The satellite isn’t used for anything more than a GPS system.” _

“So no easy hack and head home?” Sly groans.

_ “Unfortunately not. I guess Arpeggio couldn’t quite talk Jean-Bison into getting entirely high tech. No matter though, at least we’ll be able to track the trains with this and build up a schedule.” _

__ “You need me to do anything else while I’m out here?” Sly asks.

 “ _ No, head on back. Between this and that conversation he had with Arpeggio, Jean-Bison’s thrown me for a bit of a loop. I’ll need a couple of hours to think this out.” _

__ Sly stands up and stretches, surveying the broken landscape, and prays to whatever is listening that they’ll get a bit of sun eventually.

-

There’s something itching at the back of Bentley’s mind that he can’t place; that conversation Sly broadcasted to him has added yet another mystery, and he’s got a hunch he isn’t quite confident enough to put to Sly and Murray, because things aren’t adding up.

 He  _ suspects _ Arpeggio plans to somehow hypnotise Paris. He has no idea why. Likely rooted in a deep seated inferiority complex, if the psychological profile he’s put together is even remotely right. Likely, with the Contessa’s help, he’s put together a machine powerful enough to broadcast hypnotic lights to the entirety of the city. And if people have consumed spices within the last couple of days, they’ll be susceptible- likely Dimitri still has several clubs and restaurants still putting spiced food out, their true ownership cleverly hidden from Interpol. It’s an extremely far fetched plan even without this “Northern Lights” battery, and Bentley has full confidence they’ll be able to board the blimp and stop Arpeggio in time. But until Arpeggio arrives, they may as well collect the rest of Clockwerk while they’re at it.

  But,  _ One ought to be enough for the old bird, _ Neyla had said, and he can’t figure out what she meant, or  _ why _ Neyla would even have attempted to steal an Eye for herself. Bentley thinks he has Arpeggio under lock and key, but he’s missing something here and he doesn’t like it. 

 This all swims in the back of his head across the morning as he puts together a plan to nab the first part. This is going to be tricky in a much different way to Prague, but Bentley is relieved if only because they won’t be in the middle of a war zone while they do it.

 He calls Murray and Sly into his study, where the ever useful projector is set up, waiting to go.

 “I think you two are going to like this one,” Bentley grimaces. 

 “Why?” Murray asks.

 “It involves jumping onto moving trains.”

  Murray and Sly hoot at each other and highfive.

 “Honestly,” Bentley says in exasperation, and raps the desk with his pointer. The two of them settle and turn their attention back to him.

 “So,” he begins. “Jean-Bison has grafted a Clockwerk part to the engine of each train. This improvement allows the trains to run all night and all day on minimal fuel, and they only stop right in the middle of the camp to collect more wood for fuel, where we will  _ not _ be able to sneak on board.”

 “Is that a challenge?” Sly asks.

 “Absolutely not,” Bentley says sternly. “Now, while they’re in motion, the only way abroad is through a  _ very _ secure hatch in the caboose roof. Sly, I need you to steal some stronger explosives from the camp in town, and drop a bomb down on each train to blow open the hatch wide open.” He swallows. “And I’ll… jump.... on the train at the opportune moment, and make my way through and steal the first part.” 

__ “Wait, why are  _ you _ doing the jumping?” Sly complains.

  “The way this first train is laid out, I’ll be able to work my way through to the front pretty easy, which is good- I’ll need to examine how the part’s been attached before either of you have a go at the next trains.”

 Sly grumbles but can’t refute this logic. He still looks a little grumpy though as he grabs his cane on the way out.

-

While Sly’s at work in the camp stealing some high strength explosives, Murray gets a little antsy and decides to take a walk, slipping his thick disguise back on and going for a quick walk around town. He ends up a little hungry, and decides to duck into the town’s pub to get a schnitzel. 

 He’s sitting quite peaceably, looking out the window while he eats , when he sees Carmelita outside.

 He freezes for a second, but she doesn’t seem to have seen him, and keeps walking. After a few minutes pass, he relaxes and finishes his meal and leaves.

 He opens the door and he can’t see her anywhere. He reaches for his binocucom and opens a comms line to Bentley, making his way carefully back to the safehouse.

 “Bentley,” he says in a low voice, “Carmelita’s here. I just saw her.”

 “ _ What!”  _ Bentley says. “ _ She shouldn’t be here for another two days! Are you sure it was her? Did she see you?” _

__ “Yeah, it was definitely her. I don’t think she saw me though, I’m gonna head back to the safehouse-”

 “ _ No, don’t- if she  _ has _ seen you, you’ll lead her straight to us.” _

__ “Well, what do I do?” Murray says, distressed, and a little paranoid. 

_ “Go to the other side of town,”  _ Bentley tells him. “ _ Her tracker’s still saying she’s in Ontario, so she’s probably bought a new phone. I’ll see if I can find her. In the meantime, do not lead her to the safehouse, whatever you do-” _

 Something hard and blunt presses against his back, and Murray freezes.

 “ _ I’ll tell Sly right away.”  _ Bentley pauses. “ _ Murray? Are you there? Murray?” _

__ “Keep your hands up, Murray,” Carmelita says very quietly. Murray looks around wildly, half expecting Sly to come to his rescue. “Hand the communicator to me, Murray.”

 “ _ Murray? Murray, are you okay?” _

__ He disconnects the call, trusting Bentley will figure out what’s happened, and slowly turns around and gives Carmelita the binocucom. She stows it in a pocket of her thick jacket, and tucks her gun away. Then, taking him by surprise, she loops her arm through his.

 “We’re going to walk nice and slow back to the place I’ve rented,” she tells him, “If you move, I’ll shoot you down, Murray. You know I will.”

He nods, and she continues talking.

“Anyone walking by is going to think we’re good friends out for a stroll,” Carmelita continues, starting to lead him. For a couple of minutes, he thinks she’s figured out where their safehouse is, but she makes a turn too early and goes south. He relaxes, and they come to a little unit that Carmelita leads him into.

 “Sit down,” she tells him. He does. She draws the blinds and locks the doors, and then takes out a pair of cuffs. 

 “They’re going to be a little tight,” she says apologetically, and cuffs his hands behind his back. She looks a little at a loss of what to do after that, and it strikes Murray suddenly that he really just had the misfortune to bump into her, and she was expecting it as much as him.

 She squints at him. “Is that beard real?” She asks.

 He grimaces. “No,” he admits. 

 “You know… hippos can’t grow beards. You know that, right?”

 He shifts in his chair. “Well, yeah.”

 She shakes her head, but her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. 

 “I’m not going to tell you where the safehouse is,” He tells her.

 Carmelita sighs, and sits down, putting her face in her hands. “I should have just followed you,” she says, voice muffled. “Jesus, I’m like an overeager rookie cop all over again.”

 Murray says nothing, waiting. 

 “I can’t let you go, Murray. You know that.”

 He shrugs. and she looks at him. “Sly and Bentley- they’ll come looking for you, won’t they?”

 He shrugs again. He likes Carmelita, but he isn’t going to help her trap his friends.

 She’s silent for a few moments, and goes to a duffle bag sitting on the couch. She pulls out some cable ties, and ties his ankles together.

 “Sorry,” she grunts as she pulls them tight. “This isn’t exactly by the book, but you know I’m not going to… I’m not like Neyla,” she says, as she stands up. “You know that, right?” 

 Murray blinks at that desperation in her tone and nods, and she nods back. 

 “Good,” she says, and then awkwardly hovers. Murray gets the feeling that she’s so used to procedure that without the law behind her, she feels kind of lost.

 “I feel like I should be reading you your rights,” she admits. “But without my badge, it doesn’t mean very much.”

 “So what are you going to do?” Murray asks her.

 “I’m going to go look for your friends,” she says decisively. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she warns him. “I’m locking everything up, and you won’t be able to move or do anything.”

 He looks at her, and they’re both thinking the same thing; that this plan  _ itself _ is stupid.

-

Sly lands on a nearby hill and reassembles the paraglider into its backpack form, watching as smoke is whipped away from the third train. A job well done, and frankly, pretty cool, he thinks.

 He starts picking his way back to the safehouse, and says down the comm line, “All done, Bentley. Making my way back now.”

 “ _ Sly, we may have a problem.” _

_  “ _ What’s up?” Sly asks, feeling a low rumble of dread in his stomach at Bentley’s slow, worried tone.

 “ _ I think Carmelita may have captured Murray,” _ Bentley says in a small voice.

 “What?!” Sly exclaims, louder than he means to. He looks around, and then squats down low to the ground out of sight, half expecting her to come screaming through the trees. “I thought she wasn’t meant to be here for another couple of days?”   
 “ _ She must have thrown away the phone I gave her while she was still in Ontario,”  _ Bentley says miserably. “ _ Murray went out for a walk and told me he saw her, and then he hung up midcall and his binocucom signal’s been all over the place ever since.” _

__ “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” Sly says soothingly. 

 “ _ But I don’t know where she’s holding Murray!”  _ Bentley says, panicked.

 “ _ Carmelita isn’t cruel like the Contessa,” _ Sly reminds him. “She’s sure to check in on him at some point. Do you know where she is?”

_ “Well, if she’s the one holding the binocucom, which I’m pretty certain she is, she’s on the outskirts of town in the wilds, near the trail you took to Jean-Bison’s cabin.” _

__ “She must be doing some recon,” Sly mutters. “Can you send her live location to me?”

 “ _ I’ll plug it in now.  _ Please _ don’t get caught,” _ Bentley plead, and says something that breaks Sly’s heart a little- “ _ I don’t want to be alone again.” _

-

 Bentley tracks both Sly and Murray’s locations in live time, glued to his chair, while he struggles to pin down a separate feed for Carmelita. There’s no signals, and he wonders if she perhaps dropped off the grid entirely. Unfortunately for Carmelita, though, a single email gets sent confirming a payment for a rental in Toronto to a phone with a signal matching up with Murray’s binocucom. With great relief, Bentley sets up a tracker for that phone signal so they can keep an eye on her once Sly steals back the binocucom and breaks Murray out.

Bentley doesn’t understand Sly sometimes, but he  _ especially  _ doesn’t understand Carmelita. Oh, he has her psych profiles and so on, and he admires her intellect and her dedication to her career. He can predict Carmelita’s behaviour, sure, but he doesn’t understand the subconscious motives, how someone can have such... a  _ black and white _ approach to right and wrong. It’s almost like he’s missing a tiny little piece of a huge, otherwise completed puzzle.

 Bentley may not be the most romantically experienced of the bunch, but he sees how Carmelita and Sly looked at each other while they were returning to Paris. Does she just pretend that that attraction isn’t there? Or does her strict moral code bring her a huge sense of guilt at the thought? He doesn’t know, and Bentley doesn’t like knowing, especially when it affects his plans. He doesn’t know, really, the depth of feeling she has for Sly, and that could change a plan entirely.

 With the tracker set back up, he checks in with Sly.

 “You found her yet?”

 “ _ Yeah, I’m tailing her now. She’s heading back into town. Let’s hope she leads me straight to Murray.”  _

 “I’ve isolated the new signal from her phone,” Bentley says. “We’ll be able to keep an eye on her after this.”

 “ _ Sounds good. As happy as I am to see her, I don’t really fancy getting ambushed,” _ Sly mutters, and hangs up.

-

She doesn’t have her gun out, but her hands are in her pockets and her head is down. Sly crosses from roof to roof in the heavy dusk that Canada has yet to shake at lunch time, revelling in her.

 She looks much better; she’s regained that weight, slept well. Her hair’s grown out a bit, and she’s had it styled into a sort of pixie-undercut. The result is like a pinch of salt in a sweet dish; she looks more stunning than ever. He especially likes her thick, bulky snow jacket. It’s very cute, and he’d be lying if he didn’t want to pick her up and hug her.

 She meanders around town for a bit, and then circles back round, a couple of blocks away from the safe house, and enters a little unit block. She fumbles with the keys, and goes inside the unit closest to the street. Sly settles into a crouching position a couple of roof tops away, watching the front door. About five minutes later she comes out again, this time with a beanie on, and heads back onto the streets. Once she’s gone, he climbs down and jimmies the door open.

Murray’s sitting inside. It’s warm, and an empty bottle of water sits next to him on the table along with some crumbs.

 “Hey buddy,” Sly says. “I’ve come to break you out.”

 Murray grins. “Nice to see you pal.”

 Sly goes to unlock the ankle cuffs, and when they’re just cable ties, he raises a brow. “Why didn’t you just break these?”

Murray shrugs. “I can’t get these cuffs off. If she came back and saw I had broken them, I think she’d probably put about ten more on.”

 “Well, let me look at those cuffs then,” he says, and Murray stands and turns around so Sly can take a look at them. The cuffs are digging into his thick wrists a little, and Sly tries jimmying them open with the little lock pick set he carries, but nothing works.

 “Damn it- Bentley,” he says. “I can’t unlock these.”

 “ _ Do they have a serial number?”  _

 “Yeah, hold on.” He reads the number out, and frowns. “I haven’t seen these ones before.”

 “ _ These are really top quality,”  _ Bentley says in surprise.  _ “I’m not sure where she got them from, but I’d need a proper key set to open them.” _

__ Sly sags. “Don’t tell me I have to pickpocket her,” he says. “I’m a master thief, Bentley, but I’m not game enough to get that close to her while she’s armed and  _ actively hunting for me _ .”

 “ _ Sorry pal,”  _ Bentley says, sounding about as excited as he feels. “ _ You wanted to see her again; well, you’ll be getting up close and personal with her too.” _

__ “And her shock pistol,” Murray adds helpfully, and Sly shoots him a look.

 “So there’s no chance you can unlock these?” He asks Bentley.

 “ _ Nope. I’m sorry Sly, but you’ll need to steal the key from her. I suspect she’ll have it in a jacket pocket. She won’t expect you to make the jump on her.”  _ Bentley pauses. “ _ Try and grab Murray’s binocucom back off her too.” _

__ “No pressure,” Sly mutters, disconnecting the call. “I’ll be back later, Murray.”

 “Please hurry,” Murray says. “I’m gonna need to pee pretty soon.”

 He leaves Murray sitting there, and follows Carmelita’s co-ordinates. She’s heading back through a different section of one of the few patches of forest remaining, and as the buildings clear, it becomes very, very obvious that Sly only has the cover of night to hide behind. 

 He’s surprised, frankly, by how foolhardy this is. Going out in the dark forest on a cold night in a place she doesn’t know? Frowning, he zips his jacket even further up. Carmelita’s making mistakes in her eagerness to get back in with Interpol, and it’s… worrying. But then, he thinks, out of the three of them, Carmelita was stuck in that hellish prison the longest, and she has no friends, no-one to help her work through the shitfest that Drummond and the Contessa dragged them through. 

 He feels… sorry for her. But she’s got Murray locked up, and there’ll be a lot more to feel sorry about if they don’t steal these parts back before they’re misused even further. But short of ambushing her and knocking her out, there seems to be no way he’ll be able to get that tiny key off of her...

 He catches up to her, a thin pencil torch lighting her way. Sly doesn’t blame her giving up the element of surprise; he’s nearly fallen flat on his face several times now on the slipperier patches of ice, and what little excitement he had at seeing her has been quickly squashed under disgruntlement. 

 He steps on a twig. The crack seems to echo throughout the entirety of northern Canada, and he freezes as that beam of light starts sharply moving about. 

 “Cooper?” she calls. He resists the urge to call back and squats down behind a snowdrift. After a few seconds of listening to her feet crunching through snow though, he hears a sharp thud and an exclamation cut short.

 Sly peers up over the snowdrift after a couple of silent seconds, and sees the pencil torch on the ground, illuminating Carmelita’s legs. She isn’t moving; he moves closer (traps aren’t Carmelita’s style), and picks the torch up to get a better look. Her eyes are closed and she’s motionless, and his heart skips a beat. He carefully squats down to check her head for bleeding, and probes it with his bare finger tips. It _ looks  _ like she’s only bumped it, but he isn’t a doctor, and he’s scared to move her in case she’s somehow done some real damage.

 “Bentley,” he mutters into the comm. “Good news, bad news.”

 “ _ Good news first.” _

__ “It’s going to be easy to get that key.”

 “ _ And the bad news?” _

__ “It’s going to be easy to get the key because Carmelita’s fallen and knocked herself unconscious out in the middle of the forest.”

 A beat, and Bentley’s medical training kicks in. “ _ Is she bleeding? What about her heartbeat?” _

__ “No bleeding that I can see.” Sly peels off his glove and moves her jumper back a bit off her wrist, presses his fingers there. He counts for a bit in his head. “Heartbeat is regular. I can’t leave her here, Bentley. She’ll freeze to death.”

 “ _ Obviously,” _ Bentley says in exasperation. “ _ Nothing’s at an awkward angle, is it? No obvious bruising to the neck?” _

_  “ _ No.”

 Bentley’s quiet for a bit, thinking. “ _ It may be dark, but there’s a locum in town whose office is open till five. Carry her in, explain you found her out there but you don’t know her, and leave her there. But be quick- I’m not sure how long she’ll be out, without examining her myself.” _

__ Sly quickly checks her pockets, slipping Murray’s binocucom back in his jacket pocket, and soon finds a small keyring with three house keys and a single, tiny key that he removes from the ring and tucks safely in an inner pocket.

 “Up we go,” he says to himself, and hoists Carmelita over his shoulder, fireman style. She’s heavier than he initially expected, until he takes into consideration that she’s basically all muscle.

 The hike back to the town isn’t too bad, but it’s slow; he doesn’t want to slip and have  _ both _ of them concussed and frozen to death. 

 Luckily, he doesn’t encounter anyone on his way back; luck on his side. He’s very grateful, because he doesn’t particularly want to draw any more attention to himself than he has to.

The locum is a kindly old deer who looks at Sly over her spectacles in mild surprise when he shoulders her door open.

 “Put her on the bed dearie,” she says, opening the door to the examination room. Sly follows her in and very carefully sets Carmelita on her back. She’s drooling a little. If he weren’t concerned about her, it’d probably be adorable.

 “What happened?” she asks him as she check’s Carmelita’s pulse, peels back her eyelids and shines a penlight into them.

 Sly swaps to English and puts on the Boston accent he’s been working on. shrugging. “I dunno, doc. I was coming bahck from a hike and found her layin’ there. I ‘spose she bumped her ‘ead.”

 His accent seems to be passable, and the deer nods as she probes the back of Carmelita’s head, tutting. “Yes, she’s got a bump the size of an egg growin’ back there, and she’s getting awful cold. It’s a good thing you found her before it got even colder.”

 “Will she be okay?”

 The locum nods. “I’ll keep an eye on her until she wakes up and check her again then.”

 “Good to hear,” Sly says, and makes like he’s checking the clock on her wall. “I would wait around, but my buddies and I are having a poker night soon, so I better skedaddle.”

 She seems surprised he doesn’t want to stick around, but doesn’t contest him. He leaves Carmelita there on that bed and makes his way back to Murray, who is very relieved to see him. Sly uncuffs him and leaves the little key and the cuffs on the dining table. Murray breaks the cable tie in a rush, and sprints to the bathroom. Sly, whose natural impulse is to snoop, finds it difficult not to go through the house in the short time while he waits.

 “How’d you get the key?” Murray asks when he comes back out. Sly tells him what happens, and he looks visibly concerned.

 “The doctor said she’ll be fine,” he assures Murray. “To be honest, as much as it pains me to say it, that was probably the best case scenario. I don’t think I would have been able to get the key off her out there.”

 “I guess,” Murray shrugs, and they leave the door locked behind them, quickly heading back to the safehouse. “I dunno, she seemed… lost.”

 “I think Drummond and the Contessa got to her pretty badly,” Sly says quietly, and Murray nods. 

 “I don’t think she knows how to live without her job,” Murray says simply, and Sly blinks. “I think… I think she’s defined herself by it. And now Neyla and the Contessa have taken that away, and she’s like one of those vines without that stick they grow around.”

 “That… that sounds pretty accurate,” Sly manages. “You’re real observant sometimes, Murray.”

 “Naw,” Murray grins. “Just good at reading faces.”

They push open the door and Bentley’s waiting for them, looking incredibly relieved. He rushes forward and hugs both of them.

 Murray enthusiastically lifts the both of them up, and it’s a good and pure couple of seconds where they all breathe out again.

-

Bentley crouches on an overhang, calculations flying through his mind as the train’s carriages stream beneath him, waiting, dreading. The cold has turned his nose numb, but the several jackets and pairs of pants, as well as his thermo beanie, are keeping him well insulated. A cold blooded creature, this extreme cold is hitting him hard.

_ It’ll be a piece of cake, _ Sly had said easily when Bentley expressed his  _ clearly _ illogical fear of jumping on a train moving over forty miles an hour.

 He closes his eyes, in his head counting down, and steps out onto air.

 It’s a brief exhilarating second, wind rushing through his ears, and then comes the fall.

 He’s timed it perfectly, but it’s still a shock; he struggles not to withdraw into his shell to minimise the force, and falls straight on the roof of the caboose, falling immediately to his hands. He’s wearing his own pair of the climbing gloves he gave Sly, and they hold fast until he can get his balance, breathing heavily. He crawls over to the hatch; with the lock busted, and the guards too stupid to check, he lifts it up with a heave and a puff and drops in.

 The back of the train is dark, full of crates and crates of spices, and he takes a second to let his eyes adjust before scurrying on. The door’s been left open a crack, and he pushes it open. The fresh breeze is a welcome reprieve from the spices, and he creeps into the next carriage, which is empty, except it isn’t.

 Bentley’s eager to try out the little toy he’s been working on for the past couple of weeks; a portable, rechargeable EMP. It’s actually inspired by the energy weapons the Klaww Gang have used throughout their heists, and it’s a quick and easy way to get through electrical traps that can’t be hacked.

 Bentley flicks the EMP switch on, and immediately the lasers he can’t see blink off for approximately a minute, letting him get to the other end of the car with ease. He lets himself beam at his own genius before frowning. It’s odd that there’s a carriage for travellers- likely, Bentley suspects, Jean-Bison trying to make a little money on the side. He makes his way through two more passenger cars then comes to a car open to the elements, loaded with more crates and barrels. He starts to sidle through them and freezes when he sees the flash of a torchlight. The guard moves on by, and Bentley comes out through the other side, taking out his crossbow. Two walking, and three huddled around an extremely ill advised hobo-esque fire.

 Bentley takes out the three of them by shooting a widespread sleeping dart into the fire that bursts; the fire goes out and the three of them immediately go to sleep. Two more careful shots, and the walking guards sink to the floor.

 Bentley’s chest puffs out a little and he creeps through them. Two foxes, a moose, and a young bear. His chest de-puffs and he’s very glad he didn’t have to face any of them.  

 Two more open air carts, and several more guards later, Bentley comes to the front of the train and knocks out the engineer driving the train. He has five minutes to get the part and get out again, where he should neatly land in a thick snow drift nearby Murray in the van.

 The Lung is bizarrely welded into an open furnace. It’s unlike any train Bentley’s ever seen, and he pulls out a welding mask, looking at it. he has a couple of connectors he’ll use to quickly hook everything back up, but it’s going to be a very sooty, very sweaty and very uncomfortable experience. He pulls out the mini laser cutter and begins disconnecting two pipes at once, connecting them, then the other, and three minutes later he has the Lung, a gruesomely large but light metal alloyed creation in his hands.

 Coughing, he opens some windows so the engineer doesn’t suffocate, and creeps back to the edge of the platform, waiting for the right spot, and jumps.

 The snow drift is not as soft as he was hoping, but it’s better than ducking and rolling. He clambers out of it, and follows the map to the co-ordinates where Murray is waiting.

 Sure enough, Murray is parked behind some trees at the start of the nearby trail, and he waves at Bentley and then falters.

 “You aren’t getting in the van like that,” Murray says with an out of character flatness.

 “What?”

 “You’re covered in soot,” Murray tells him, and Bentley looks down.

 “Oh. I’ll, uh. I’ll put a towel down?”

 Murray eyes him and grumbles a reluctant “okay”. Bentley feels a little bad, but lays several towels down after trying to shake the soot off.

 “Careful,” Murray says, sounding distressed. “That leather is Italian, you know.”

 “I’m pretty sure it isn’t, Murray,” Bentley says.

 Murray gives him a look, and Bentley holds his hands up in surrender.

-

Bentley re-emerges after a long hot shower, and calls them to sit around the little table.

 “So far, things are going great,” he beams. Murray mutters something about the van. Sly, who has just woken up from his power nap, is nursing a cup of strong coffee and has no idea what time it is.

 “Did you get it then?” Sly asks him.

 Bentley leans over to the desk and pulls off a little tarp sheet, and Sly frowns at the odd piece of metal. It’s almost as big as Bentley., and it doesn’t  _ look _ intimidating, but- this powered Clockwerk. This iron lung  _ powered _ his enemy. It’s… kind of underwhelming, somehow, the first part that hasn’t brought fear into his guts. 

 “You carried that?” he says in disbelief.

 “It’s very light,” Bentley explains. “I can’t wait to have a better look at it, actually; architecturally speaking, it’s a fascinating piece of engineering. But,” he says, covering it back up, “Let’s get back to the thick of it. We’ve got one part, but the other two trains are going to be a little tougher to crack.”

 Sly rubs his hands in anticipation.

 “My turn to jump off onto a train, right Bentley?” he says.

 Bentley rolls his eyes. “ Yes, you’re up first Sly. You’ll need to take my EMP with you to knock out some lasers and mini-turrets on the roof, but other than that, you should be fine. I’d do it myself, but the guard will be doubled after he figures out one of the trains is missing the Lung. Murray, you’ll need to collect him afterwards, obviously.”

 “Yes,” Sly says, pumping his fist.

 “Now, I’m sorry Murray, but for the final train, we need you to be ready to pick us up-” Murray groans in disappointment, and Bentley continues- “as Sly and I will need to board together. I suspect that my bombs may be needed for this one, as by this point, I suspect Jean-Bison will have had the stomach more tightly bolted down.”

 Murray crosses his arms.

 “Sorry, Murray,” Bentley says. “Unfortunately, we don’t have the luxury of our best driver not being behind the wheel for this one.”

 Murray smiles a little, but forces his face back into disappointment. 

-

Sly makes his way out past the trails, and all he can think of is Carmelita.

 Bentley’s told him from a quick hack into the locum’s clinic computer that Carmelita has been discharged with no concussion, and some pain medication with strong advice to  _ rest _ . He wonders if she’ll heed those instructions; he suspects not.

 Puffing as he climbs a hill, it’s hard not to feel a little guilty for ruining her plans. He’s.. disappointed. Of course, she told them that she was going to chase them, and this is exactly that, and he knew that she wasn’t suddenly going to change, but-

 He forces this from his mind before he begins unrealistic fantasies of Carmelita forsaking her badge and joining the Gang. 

_ You could give up being a thief, you know, _ a small part of him says, taking him by surprise.

 Sly crests the hill to see the sharp drop and the winding railway. The train, right on Bentley’s schedule, is chugging through, and he takes a running leap, the first few seconds of freefall shocking his system, before he engages the glider and swoops down.

 He lands on the back perfectly and is extremely proud of himself as he climbs into the storage carriage at the back. The next carriage has two burly looking moose who have, conveniently, either fallen asleep or passed out drunk. He suspects it’s the latter, judging from the empty bottles of whiskey, and creeps by, admiring the polished interior of the carriage. The next one is empty, but he knows better than to believe it; he takes out Bentley’s little EMP and flicks it on, making his way quickly through the next one. The next carriage is closed, so he shimmies his way up to the roof and presses the re-charged EMP once more; several small turrets buzz and turn off, and he passes those too.

 Honestly, after Prague, he’s enjoying the… the  _ easiness _ of this. He may be a master thief but sometimes, a paraglide onto a train is enough. 

 The next one is an open air cart loaded with more crates, a couple of guards sitting there with flashlights. He almost laughs at this, and simply climbs along the stacks silently before progressing again to the next cart. He’s about to enter when speakers ring out with Jean-Bison’s voice.

_ “Attention, Iron Horse number two. In case y’all ain’t heard, some no-good criminal made off with one of the Clockwerk lungs. The guards on Iron Horse one have been punished accordingly.” _

 Sly waits to activate the EMP for this one, in case he says anything useful, but it’s just a couple of thinly veiled threats to his employees, and Sly activates the EMP, turning the security and the speakers off. 

 He makes it to the front without incident, sneaking behind the engineer and slapping one of Bentley’s sedative patches onto him; the engineer sinks to the ground. Sly takes out the laser pointer and Bentley leads him through what to do; soon enough, the Lung is in his hands, and he’s out the train, gliding away.

-

“We’ll be in and out Murray,” Bentley promises as they get out of the van. It’s time for the third train, and they’re all rugged up with Bentley tracking the train’s GPS; the safehouse is cleared, and everything packed in the van. Once they’re done here, they’re gone.  Murray nods. “I’ll see you guys soon.” He rolls up the windows and pulls away.

Sly rubs his hands together. “I gotta be honest Bentley, I’m having a real good time out here.”

 Bentley grunts. “You’re a regular thrill seeker,” he says sourly. 

 Sly nudges him as they crest the overhang they plan to jump from. “What’s the matter? You did this before just fine.”

 “Well, yes, but I didn’t take great pleasure in it,” Bentley argues. He takes out his binocucom to check the train’s progress. “About thirty seconds,” he tells Sly.

Sly crouches, looking a little feral in his excitement. Bentley crouches but looks remarkedly less so, and Sly stifles his laughter. 

 “Three… two… one....” Bentley says through gritted teeth: “Jump!”

 Sly lands perfectly, his gloved hands slapping down on the roof and sticking. Bentley yells as he slips off and Sly grabs him by the shoulder strap belt his ammunition is strapped to, and heaves him back up.

 Bentley is ashen. “Thank you,” he says.

 “You wouldn’t even have died,” Sly points out bemusedly. “You’d just bounce into the snow.”

 Bentley glares at him, and Sly lifts the roof hatch; Bentley lowers himself down and Sly jumps through after him.

 True to form, the carriage is once again a spice storage unit, and they creep into the next carriage. Bentley deftly knocks both guards out, and they go on.

 Bentley and Sly climb through the train leaving a trail of unconscious guards and shocked out mini turrets behind them. They work smoothly and in sync, covering each other’s backs; after Prague, this heist is going like a dream. Jean-Bison has clearly underestimated them; there’s a couple of extra guards, but nothing drastic.

 Then they come to the third carriage from the front, and freeze: Jean-Bison is pacing up and down the passenger cart. The empty cart they’re in is badly lit, so he can’t see them, but they both duck out of view.

 A second of silence, and then Sly speaks up. “I think I can crawl around the edge of the train.”

 “Don’t be stupid Sly, what if you fall-”

 Sly shakes his head. “None of your darts are strong enough to take him down, right?”

 Bentley hesitates, and shakes his head, checking his holster. “I- I wasn’t expecting to encounter him, I didn’t pack my stronger ammunition.” He looks crestfallen. “I guess I got cocky.”

 Sly reaches out and pats his shoulder. “Don’t worry, buddy. We were almost there, anyway.”

 Bentley rifles through his pack, and gives Sly his EMP, the tools for removing the Stomach, and some small bombs. “Call me the moment you get to the stomach so I can walk you through it, okay?”

 Sly nods, carefully creeps out onto the adjoining platform as Jean-Bison is walking the other way, then creeps on the side of the train. It’s a very, very small outcropping, and even for Sly, whose balance is better than that of an Olympic gymnast, every step feels like a mile. Getting to the other side, crouching the entire way, takes several hundred years and several moments of almost slipping off. He reaches the other side and takes a big breath in.

 “Okay, made it,” he says down the comm link.

 “ _ Thank god,” _ Bentley replies tensely. Sly picks the lock open for the next door and sidles through the empty compartment after activating the EMP. He comes out onto the little connecting platform in the open air  and then, he doesn’t know why, but the hair on his neck prickles.

 He trusts his instinct and ducks, just as gunfire erupts over head and something zooms over him. 

 “ _ Bentley!” _ He shouts. “ _ What’s happening?” _

__ “ _ You won’t believe this,” _ Bentley moans. “ _ It’s  _ Neyla _.” _

__ Gunfire overhead narrowly misses him, and he throws himself back into the previous carriage. He can see Jean-Bison still pacing; the carriages must be supremely soundproofed.

 “What is Neyla doing here?” He hisses.

 “ _ I don’t know Sly! I can see her flying over, she’s in some type of aircraft I’ve never seen!” _

__ “I’m going to try and get a better look,” Sly says grimly, taking a deep breath and sticking his head out. No gunfire; he pulls himself up onto the roof and looks around in the moonlight. 

 “Come on, Neyla,” he says to himself. “Where are you?”

 He takes a single step on the roof and Neyla divebombs him, in a strange small plane. He rolls across the roof, his gloves giving him purchase.

 “Bentley, it’s some sort of hover vehicle crossed with a plane,” he mutters quickly. “And whatever she’s shooting- they’re energy bursts, like Dimitri’s ring, but a  _ lot _ more lethal.”

 Bentley sounds hysterical. “ _ Sly, get back under cover! I have no idea what to do with that thing!” _

__ Sly ignores this, searching for Neyla again in the gloom. 

That terrible energy he had in Prague has lessened, somewhat, as if his time away from the Contessa, from Drummond, has healed the wound a little. It’s not a scar yet, but it’s closed up, and he can concentrate properly. The hurt from Neyla’s betrayal has turned into cold anger, and _ that _ he can channel.

He takes a quick inventory; his cane, his gloves, the tools for removing the stomach, the EMP…

 An idea begins forming in his head.

  “Can’t get me out of your head, Neyla?” he yells into the night wind whipping by. “Is that why you’re following me?”

 Nothing. 

 “Or are you really that jealous of Carmelita that you’d hunt me down out of spite?” he tries again. It’s a weak taunt, but this seems to get her interest; from seemingly nowhere, her craft lowers alongside him.

 “Jealous? Of Old Ironsides?” she says scornfully. 

 Sly shrugs. “What am I meant to think?” he says with a calm flirtatiousness that he doesn’t feel. A part of him is thinking how easy it would be to just… leap onto that thing and throw her off. He ignores this dark little voice. “You hunt me down all the way up in Canada, corner me while I’m alone… frankly, it’s a little desperate, Neyla.”

 She shoots back some hackneyed remark, but he doesn’t pay attention, looking at her aircraft. 

 On closer inspection, he isn’t sure what’s keeping it afloat at all; he can see besides the joysticks she’s using to steer, a large number of buttons on a small dashboard; he looks closer still, and there’s no little panel to push back for liquid petrol.

 Sly has a wild hunch, and he carefully reaches into his pocket.

 Neyla of course, notices this, and her aircraft drifts lazily closer, taunting him.

 “Ooh, what are you going to do, Sly?” she says coyly. She puts her head in her hand, leaning over the controls flirtatiously. “Are you going to shoot me? I’m shocked a thief of your caliber would carry a pistol.”

 Sly bares his teeth at her in a savage grin. “If you find that shocking, you’ll find this  _ electrifying,”  _ he says, and flicks the switch on the EMP.

 Neyla frowns, and then her aircraft suddenly goes dead in the air and spirals into the trees; she barely manages to pull the tag on her parachute in time, and Sly can hear her faintly scream at him:

 “ _ The Clockwerk parts will be mine yet, Cooper! You, Interpol- none of you will stop me!” _ _   
_ __ Sly frowns.

 “ _ You realise that pun made no sense, right Sly?”  _ Bentley is saying in his ear.

 “What?”

 “ _ The EMP is the opposite of electrifying. It literally shuts down electrical devices.” _

_ “ _ Don’t spoil the moment, Bentley,” Sly says huffily, crossing the roof of the train and letting himself down in front of the front carriage. “You have to admit, that was pretty cool.”

 “ _ Alright, alright,”  _ Bentley admits. “ _ I have to admit, that was very clever.” _

 “Thank you,” Sly says. He knocks the engineer out and drags him outside. “Did you hear Neyla screaming about the Clockwerk parts?”

 “ _ Yeah. I have no idea what she means, Sly- she has no use for the parts.” _

 “It’s creepy,” Sly says, coming to the Stomach. “Ah. Bentley, you’re right, it’s bolted down solid.”

 “Place a bomb at each connection, and back right up,” Bentley warns. Sly obediently sets the bombs and sets them off; the explosion is muffled but powerful, and the Stomach falls to the floor as smoke begins to billow out.

 He coughs, but picks it up and goes to the side of the train.

 “Bentley, I’ve got the Stomach.”

 “ _ Okay, we have a couple of minutes yet. I’m shocked we’re still on time, frankly,” _ Bentley mutters. Sly closes the engine compartment door behind him, trapping the fumes. 

  “Is Murray still on route?”

  “ _ Grumpy, but on route. All in all, one of our more successful heists so far in the whole Klaww Gang thing,” _ Bentley says, pleased. They wait a couple of minutes, and then Bentley counts them down and they both jump off and roll into the snow, meeting at the track a couple of minutes later.

 “Murray won’t be happy,” Bentley tells him. “You’re filthy.”

 Sly looks down at himself unhappily.  “I can’t do anything about it.”

 “Try and dust yourself off at least.”

 Sly sets the stomach down in the snow and ineffectually tries to bat the soot off his fur and clothes. Murray pulls up in the van, and frowns at Sly through the open window.

 “We’ll put towels down, Murray,” Bentley says before Murray can open his mouth. Murray gives them both a hard luck, but unlocks the doors. They get in, and go.

-

As Sly sits very still on his towel, Bentley is doing his habitual check of his surveillance systems. On the Interpol lines, he sees something that he doesn’t like, and hears even  _ more _ things he doesn’t like.

 “Sly,” Bentley sighs, taking off his headphones. 

 Sly turns his head to him very carefully. “Yeah?”

 “I can’t believe this,” Bentley mutters. “We have to help Carmelita.”

 Sly stares at him. “What?”

 “Neyla’s storming the town. Jean-Bison’s already flown the coop, but Carmelita’s still there. She’s still at that little unit. If Neyla catches her-”  

 “Well, we gotta go get her out of there,” Sly starts.

 “No,” Bentley says. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to call her through my system. You tell her what’s happening. Then she has a chance to get out of there.”

 “And go where?” Sly argues. “Neyla will have everything on lockdown. They’ll be checking buses, cars, anything heading out of that area on the roads. If she doesn’t come with us, she won’t be able to get out.”

 Sly and Bentley have a long stare down, and Bentley rolls his eyes.

 “Fine,” he says in exasperation. “Call her then.”

 Sly slips the headphones on, and Bentley hits dial.

-

“ _ Hello?” _

Her voice is a little rough.

 “Carmelita, it’s Sly.”

 “ _ What- how did you get this number?” _

__ “Carmelita, I know you’re probably not very happy with us, but you  _ need _ listen to me. Neyla’s arrived, and she’s brought a lot of officers with her. They’ll be in town in fifteen minutes. You need to get your things, and get out of there.”

_ “But-” _

__ “We’ll be waiting on the entrance to the south east trail out of town in half an hour, the one that leads back around Jean-Bison’s main camp. If you’re not there in half an hour, we’ll leave.” He paused, trying to sound a little more gentle. “You don’t have to come with us, but you know how they operate. If you don’t go know, you won’t be able to get out of that town. Neyla  _ will _ find you.”

 Saying the last part makes Sly guilty, but it’s the truth. 

  Silence on the line. He opens his mouth to speak-

 “ _ I’ll be there,” _ she snaps angrily _ , _ and hangs up.

 “What did she say?” Bentley asks him as he takes the headphones off.

 “She wasn’t happy, but she’s not stupid,” Sly replies, passing the headphones back to him. “She’ll be there.”

 “We having another road trip?” Murray calls from the back. 

 “Yeah, we are buddy,” Sly calls back to him. “Your favourite Inspector’s back.”

 “As long as she doesn’t cuff me again,” Murray bellows good naturedly, and takes a turn leading to the trail.

 Bentley’s looking at him hard. “If she does anything like that again, Sly,” he warns him. 

 Sly grins at him. “I don’t think we have anything to worry about,” he says.

 Bentley shakes his head. His voice is gentler, this time. 

 “You can’t have your cake and eat it too, Sly,” he says, patting his friend on the knee. 

 Sly looks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was Much quicker than i expected! Not too fond of this chapter to be honest, but again, the interlude is going to be a lot more fun. I changed a few more things as well for this one re missions; removed the bizarre spice balloon mission, removed most of the thing where the trains have air control missiles (?) and also the final heist. Also, i removed the random wild bear mission. 
> 
> i didn't go into as much character dev as i planned with this chapter. it just didn't feel right. but I promise Sly and Carmelita will be getting some next chapter!
> 
> also, it was very gently pointed out to me that i have the ages Very Wrong in this fic. I'm going to leave it as is, but dont worry, I am aware (and embarrassed LOL)
> 
> Thanks for reading by the way!! I'm really steaming along this fic right now. I'm hoping i'll have the interlude up by end of next week at worst.


	13. interlude: road trip#2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> road trip V2; sly just can't keep his mouth shut; bentley hates sitting in the back seat

Carmelita climbs into the van, stony faced, and slumps down next to Bentley, arms crossed. Sly tries not to smile.

 “Hi, Carmelita!” Murray bellows happily, putting the van back into gear and driving.

 “Hi, Murray,” she says, embarrassed.

 “We’ll take you far enough out of town to get to a local airport and back to Ontario,” Bentley tells her, not looking up from his laptop. “Neyla won’t expect us to be so close- from what I can tell, she’s been over confident with this one.”

 “What about you guys?” she asks, surprised. 

 “Worried about us?” Sly teases.

 “Suspicious is more like it,” Carmelita grumbles.

 “We have unfinished business with Jean Bison,” Sly says. “Let’s just leave it at that.”

 “And we aren’t exactly going to take you with us,” Bentley says to her pointedly, which makes Carmelita’s frown become even flatter.

 They all sit in silence for a while; Murray focusing on the snowy road, Bentley on his laptop. Sly wants to say something to her. Anything.  He chances a glance at Carmelita, who is resolutely glaring out the window, and he softens. 

_ Stop being selfish _ , he tells himself; she’s so clearly embarrassed, angry, worried, and all he can think about is how to flirt with her.  

 Carmelita clears her throat and leans forward in her seat.

 “Murray?” 

 “Yeah, Inspector?”

 She clears her throat again. “I hope that you don’t… hate me. For what I did.”

 Murray looks at her quickly, a reassuring smile on his face, before turning back to the road. “Naw, it’s fine. You gotta do what you gotta do. Besides, Sly got me out before I needed to go to the toilet  _ too _ bad.”

 Carmelita stares at Sly intensely, but then looks back at Murray, and nods, though he can’t see it, of course. Then she returns to staring out the window, looking a little more comfortable.

 Sly stares at her now in unabashed interest;  _ she doesn’t want Murray to hate her. _ What an intriguing conflict of interest.

-

They pull over in a roadside motel when it starts getting dark, wearing some of their emergency disguises. Murray ducks down to the petrol station and brings up instant noodles and crackers; they huddle around the room’s heater and quietly eat while Bentley checks the next day’s route.

 “We’ll need to take shifts,” he advises them. “We should be safe here, but Neyla is as sly as she is slippery. I don’t want to be caught off guard.”

 “I’ll take first shift,” Sly says immediately. He can’t sleep, and he doesn’t want to. He’ll just wake up, same old same old, lava and brimstone and  _ screeching _ .

 Bentley eyes him but agrees. They finish their food and turn in for the night; Murray, on his ridiculously undersized cot; Bentley, in his ridiculously  _ over _ sized cot. Carmelita is next door in her own room, and Sly sits at the window, thinking to himself.

 The snow drifts down in the night, piling up, and he thinks, thinks,  _ thinks _ so hard at the wall between their rooms that he feels like it should shatter.

 He stands up and stretches, checking the clock on the bedside; it’s only been an hour since she went into her room; likely, she’s still awake. He closes the door softly behind him, and walks slowly to her room, the old floor creaking beneath him. He stops there, in front of the door, hand raised to knock, straining his ears for any sign that she’s still awake.

 Then the door flies open and her pistol is in his face. But this is a sight with which he is well acquainted.

 “Can’t sleep?” He says calmly.

 She lowers the pistol a little, but not entirely. He notices her hands are trembling.

 “Sorry,” she mutters. “I’m a little… on edge.” 

 “May I come in?” He asks carefully. She looks at him long and hard, and shrugs.

 “Why the hell not,” she mumbles, sticking the pistol back into the crook of her pants. He comes in and she closes the door behind him. He takes a seat at her window so that he isn’t completely neglecting his duties.

 Carmelita slumps on the bed, arms crossed.

 “What do you want?” she says.

 Sly peers through the blinds, checking the area quickly. Nothing but darkness and snow.

 “Being on guard duty is boring,” he tells her, not looking away. “And Murray snores.”

 “I know,” Carmelita says. “I remember.”

 Sly glances at her. “How are you holding up?”

 “I’m fine,” she says a little too quickly.

 Sly looks away carefully, back out the window, watching her reflection. “Getting any closer to ousting Neyla?” 

 “No,” Carmelita mutters. He watches her reflection polish her gun with her jacket. “She’s covered her tracks incredibly well.”

 “She turned up a couple of days ago on this high tech plane thing,” Sly tells her. “Screaming about how she wanted the Clockwerk parts.”

 Carmelita frowns. “But that makes no sense,” she says to herself, the gears in her head audibly turning. 

 “Bentley’s at a loss too,” Sly says reassuringly “We’re missing something big, here.”

 He considers telling her about the conversation he overheard between Bison and Arpeggio, but something stops him- a little voice that sounds like Bentley, telling him,  _ she may be with you, but she isn’t a part of the gang. _

 Carmelita buries her head in her hands. Sly watches her in concern.

 “I’m never going to get them to believe me,” she mumbles, and the hair on Sly’s neck raises. This isn’t the Carmelita he knows, strong and angry,  _ confident _ .

 But then, Carmelita’s a  _ person _ , not a cardboard cut out. She’s been through so much more than she should ever have to go through. Even Carmelita has her limits. 

 The ache in Sly’s chest feels much more real and three dimensional than it ever has been, when he looks at her.

 “Maybe I should just join you guys, huh?” Carmelita says a little desperately, laughing. 

 Sly watches her and says nothing, fumbling for the right words to help her.

 “I’d probably make a shitty thief,” Carmelita says to the floor. 

 “You’d make a shitty thief,” Sly agrees slowly. “But you make a great cop.”

 Carmelita looks up at him, and swallows. They hold eye contact for a while, Sly searching her face anxiously. Her expression is unreadable. 

 She sniffs, and chuckles, and looks away.

 “I don’t need  _ you _ to tell me, of all people,” she says. “You’re only thief that’s ever gotten away from me.”

 Sly’s mouth is so dry. He desperately wants to offer a comforting touch, even just offer his hand. But to do so would be to do something that would either make her uncomfortable, or take advantage of her vulnerability. He clasps his own hands as if he isn’t gripping his own fingers so hard he’s cutting his circulation off.

 “To be fair,” he says instead, “I don’t exactly have to worry about breaking the law.”

 Carmelita laughs. “You’re right,” she says, grinning at him. Her tail swishes a little. “You definitely have an advantage there.”

 Sly smiles at her. “Well, I can’t make your job  _ too _ easy, can I?”

 Carmelita leans forward a little. “If you wanted to make it a little easier, you could turn yourself in, you know,” she says slyly, that grin turning a little slow. He can see the old fire burning in her again now, low but strong embers, and blood rushes to his cheeks.

 She’s so beautiful, and smart, and passionate, and-  _ and- _

 “I think about it, every now and then,” he says before he can stop himself, in a low, rough voice, fingers wrangled around each other,. He looks up at her.

 She gazes at him, mouth open just the tiniest bit in surprise, her eyes searching his. The air crackles, and Sly trembles.

 “Why?” She asks him, so, so quietly.

 “You know why,” he says, barely above a whisper. They’re five feet apart, and he’s never felt so far away from someone and so, so close at the same time. They hold that gaze for what feels like hours. Carmelita’s tongue darts out to whet her lips, and he digs his claws into the back of his hands, the muscles in his thighs twitching.

 He stands up abruptly.

 “I better let you get some sleep,” Sly says, strained, and goes to the door, fumbling with the lock like a ten year old pickpocket, he’s never felt so clumsy in his  _ life _ . He can’t even look back at her, afraid he’ll break the peace, the tentative truce, ruin that crackle in the air. He opens the door and closes it behind him, and stands there for several long seconds, dragging air down his throat like he’s drowning.

-

They all sit in the van, drawing close to the small airport, and Bentley is  _ uncomfortable _ .

 Murray doesn’t notice, tapping his hands to the radio, but there’s an almost palpable intensity between Sly and Carmelita. Sly’s sitting in the front, and so Bentley feels like he’s caught in the crossfire, like he’s touching a plasma lamp but with his entire  _ body _ .

 Carmelita keeps staring at the back of Sly’s head, brows furrowed, like she’s trying to solve a complicated equation. Sly meanwhile is so tense his shoulders are nearly up to his ears.

 Bentley can only deduce that something happened last night, while Sly was on guard duty, but as to  _ what _ happened, he has no idea. Perhaps an ill advised encounter? He doubts it, if only because Sly is well aware Carmelita is less than stable emotionally right now, and Sly respects both her and himself too much to give in to ill advised lust. 

Not to mention, Carmelita would probably rip his arm off.

 He studies them both over the rim of his glasses, resigning himself to distraction from his foray into just where Bison has escaped to. 

 Carmelita looks more puzzled than anything, and Sly looks distinctly embarrassed. Perhaps Sly said something a little too revealing, then? Bentley frowns, pushing his glasses back up his snout. He knew taking Carmelita with them had been a string of bad ideas, but not for this reason. Sly’s always been attached to her, infatuated, but… Bentley thinks now Sly actually  _ knows _ Carmelita, that the infatuation has turned into something much more real, much more unsalvageable.

 “Almost there now,” Murray says cheerfully. “I’ll pull over and drop you off, Inspector.”

 “Thanks,,” Carmelita says, leaning down to check her bag is zipped up and okay to go.

Murray pulls up from the bus stop, and Carmelita climbs out the door.

 Bentley watches her, how she keeps glancing at Sly.

 Sly seems to be coiled like a spring, and he suddenly gets out as well. Murray and Bentley share a glance, and they both watch through the wound up windows as the two of them talk.

 Sly looks nervous, but Carmelita cuts him off. Bentley squints, trying to read their lips. The angle Carmelita’s turned on makes it a little difficult.

_ Thank you, _ she says.

 Sly looks surprised.  _ For what? _

_  You… me to… doctor, _ Carmelita replies.

 Sly blinks.  _ Of course I did. I wasn’t going to leave you there. _

 Sly glances back at the van and sees Bentley. He raises an eyebrow, staring at Bentley pointedly and turns away, walking Carmelita towards the bus stop. Bentley glares at him as the two of them keep talking.

 “I think he loves her,” Murray says suddenly, who can still see them talking from his side of the window.

 Bentley chokes. “What?”

 Murray looks at his friend, grinning. “Isn’t it obvious?”

 Bentley’s lips thin, but he sighs in resignation. “I suppose it is, isn’t it.”

 Murray turns back to the window, rubbing his chin. “Something’s changed between them. It’s kinda nice.”

 “It’s bad news, is what it is,” Bentley mutters.

 Murray shakes his head. “Naw,” he says confidently. “Love is love.”

 “But  _ she  _ doesn’t love  _ him _ back,” Bentley argues. “How could she? She’s a police officer. Sly is a  _ criminal _ . He’s wanted in several countries for God’s sake!”   
 Murray’s eyes twinkle. “The heart wants what it wants, Bentley,” he proclaims. 

 Bentley rolls his eyes. The van door slides back open and Sly climbs in the front.

 “She says she’ll catch up to us the moment we leave Canada,” Sly laughs. “I told her to keep dreaming.”

 “She isn’t going to try and follow us?” Bentley asks doubtfully. 

 “I think she’s going to try and follow some leads on Neyla,” Sly says, looking noticeable less tense.

 Bentley narrows his eyes. “What else did you two talk about?”

 “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” Sly says, smiling a secret little smile, and for the rest of the trip, he stares out the window, smiling to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for this being short.... and thank you so much for the lovely comments and your patience! sorry for the long break, i was finishing my thesis up! I'm planning to actually have this finished ideally by the end of next week (somehow).... fingers crossed! We've only got 4 chapters left now. I suspect the next one will be a lot shorter (i've always felt Bison's segments were the weakest), as will the next interlude be. but arpeggio's is going to be Immense.
> 
> I also really struggled with this chapter (mainly because i was very tempted to write a make out scene LMAO) but i hope it feels organic and appropriately slow Burnish
> 
> what did Sly and Carmelita talk about? Who knows...... a mystery..
> 
> (me, I know, and you will eventually too i promise)
> 
> in the meantime, hopefully you'll see the next chapter soon!!!


	14. Menace in the North, Eh?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> time's running out, or; bentley's at the end of his wits, sly is plagued by nightmares, murray tries to punch a bear

That night after they drop off Carmelita, they stop in at another motel. Murray, exhausted, goes straight to sleep; Sly slowly makes his way through an old paperback left by the previous resident of the room.

 Bentley, sitting at the window, is hacking into various communication records, checking maps, trying to figure out where it’s most likely that Jean-Bison has retreated to.

 It’s 11:23 in the evening when he sees it.

 The North Lights suddenly streak across the sky like lightning, and Bentley gapes, his fingers hovering over his keyboard as he stares upwards.

 “Sly,” he says, unable to look away.

 “What is it, buddy?” Sly says, not looking up from his paperback.

 “Can you come here and make sure I’m not seeing things?”

 At Bentley’s strange tone, Sly looks up, and gapes.

 “Oh, hey,” he exclaims. “I’ve never seen the Lights before.”

 He gets up and joins Bentley at the window. They both watch the aurora snaking through the sky.

 “They just suddenly appeared,” Bentley says in disbelief. 

 “So?” 

 “You don’t understand- they don’t usually… that’s not how they come up. It was like  _ lightning _ , Sly.”

 Sly shrugs. “Nature’s weird, Bentley.’

 “Perhaps,” Bentley says, but he’s unsettled; later that night as he tries to sleep, the glow of the unusually bright Lights keep him awake.

-

Murray ducks down to the grocery store next to the petrol station to get some lunch the next day. Brushing the snow off his jacket, he absently listens to the radio playing overhead as he peruses the frozen food aisle.

_ “-seventh random assault this week; a twenty five year old woman in the Ariius nightclub in Ontario shocked patrons and her friends when she attacked a bartender with an empty glass bottle-” _

Murray pulls out a few boxes of lasagna and pasta, and after a couple of seconds of thought, grabs some chocolate on his way to the counter.

“Hi,” he smiles at the fox serving him. The fox jerks his head at the radio.

“Terrible, ain’t it?”

Murray blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“You ain’t listen to the radio much, I take it,” the fox says, scanning the food. “Down in Ontario, you know. Them city folk are causing a lot of trouble.”

“Really?” Murray says. 

“You better be careful,” the fox adds, putting the boxes in a plastic bag. “Something strange going on down there. That’ll be twenty five dollars.”

Murray hands him the cash.

“Have a nice day,” Murray calls on his way out. He folds his collar up against the cold and makes his way back to the rooms, climbing up the stairs and gratefully re-entering the warmth of Sly and Bentley’s room. 

 “Hey,” Sly crows, seeing the bag. “What did you get?”

“Tortellini for you and me,” he says, passing Sly the box, “and some lasagna and chocolate for Bentley.”

 “Thank you,” Bentley says from the desk. Sly gets straight to microwaving the food, squatting in front of it and watching it rotate.

 “I hope the Inspector’s okay,” Murray says thoughtfully.

 “Why?” Sly asks, looking up at him in concern. Murray sits down on the bed and takes his snow boots off. 

 “I heard on the radio when I was at the store- there’s been like, seven cases of random assault or something,” Murray explains. 

 Sly waves his hand dismissively. “She’d be fine,” he says confidently. “I’d like to see the idiot that tries to steal  _ her _ purse.”

 Bentley, meanwhile, turns away from his laptop and frowns.

 “It’s not just Ontario,” he says. “In the last couple of weeks, the rate of assault related crimes have skyrocketed- particularly in restaurants and clubs.”

 “Weird,” Sly shrugs.

 Bentley shakes his head. “It’s not just weird, it’s unheard of. It’s happening in literally every major city.”

 The microwave dings, and Sly carefully removes the food; Murray puts his in.

 “You missed the Northern Lights, Murray,” Sly tells him as he carefully peels the cover off of his tortellini. ‘I forgot to tell you.”

“Aw, really?” Murray says. “That sucks, I bet it was real cool.”

Bentley’s brows furrow, and he says nothing.

-

They end up staying for a week at the motel; on the sixth day, the Northern Lights suddenly appear in the middle of the afternoon, and don’t fade for thirty four hours. Bentley is beside himself, and Sly and Murray are starting to get unsettled, if only because the Lights are pervasively bright.

 “Something is  _ very _ wrong here,” Bentley says that night, as they all stare out the window while eating dinner. “I’m missing something, something  _ essential _ .”

 “Wouldn’t it be funny if it was the Klaww Gang,” Murray jokes through a mouthful of rice, and Bentley stares at him.

 “Oh my  _ God _ ,” Bentley says suddenly. “Murray- it  _ is.” _

Murray looks at Sly in confusion. “I was only joking around, Bentley-”

Bentley shakes his head. “No- when Sly overheard Bison and Apreggio, they discussed a device to hypnotise entire crowds who had ingested spices, a device the  _ Contessa _ designed.”

 Murray frowns, but Sly, who is in the middle of eating, waves Bentley to continue. The turtle starts pacing back and forth.

 “The Contessa’s machines operated on a mix of magic and technology, and used flashing lights to induce the victims. But without the Clockwerk eyes, those machines need a lot more power than normal energy can give them. Energy like the Northern Lights.”

 “These guys really can  _ not _ lay low, can they,” Sly says after swallowing his mouthful.

 “That would explain the rise of violent crime,” Bentley says. “In restaurants, anyone with who already had consumed a lot of spice consuming more would likely make them confused, aggressive. In nightclubs, though-”

 “The flashing lights,” Sly says slowly.

 “Exactly,” Bentley exclaims. “They must be using some sort of electromagnetic battery to draw the Lights- that’s why they’ve been behaving so strangely.”

 “So, what’s the plan, Bentley?” Sly asks.

 “We follow the lights North,” Bentley says slowly. It’s unusual for him to make a decision so quickly without maps, but his intuition is writhing in his gut. “If we follow the Lights, we’ll find Bison.”

-

Sure enough, six days of driving and ferries later, they find themselves on Banks Island just outside the Aulavik National Park, where the Lights shine like a beacon.

 They pull over in the van off the very basic dirt road while Bentley consults the maps, huddling around the van’s heaters. 

“What is Bison doing out in a park?” Murray asks. “Isn’t his whole thing… you know… cutting  _ down _ nature?”

 “It’s a remote, difficult to navigate area,” Bentley murmurs. “It makes sense he’d hide here. Keep going up the road, there should be a turn off a couple of miles down.”

 Murray pulls back out onto the road carefully, and eventually makes the turn. As they keep going, an oily, burning sort of smell comes through the van’s vents, and they all grimace.

 “What  _ is _ that?” Sly begins to ask, possessing the strongest sense of smell of any of them, and then they round a corner and are met with environmental devastation.

 An entire patch of the forest has been cleared out. They can see straight to the lighthouse on the cliff; sharply cut stumps everywhere, smoke billowing up from machines.

 “My  _ God _ ,” Bentley breathes in outrage. “This is native Inuvialuit and Gwich’in territory, has he no  _ shame?” _

__ “The park is patrolled, isn’t it?” Sly says, grimacing. “How come no-one’s shut him down?”

“A mix of bribery and violent coercion, I’d say,” Bentley says in disbelief. “There should be an old cabin a bit further in, Murray, we’ll make camp there.”

 Murray slowly drives them out of sight down another branching trail, the snow tires making good work of the piled up ice. The gaping plain Bison has created is visible through the trees, a murder scene covered in white.

 They all make short work of setting up in the well insulated cabin, getting a fire crackling. They’re roughly two miles out from the camp, and Bentley gets to work hacking into their limited computer system, making short work of their meager defenses. 

 A couple of hours later, he calls them over and they stand behind him, watching him bring up a list.

 “Here’s what we know,” Bentley says. “Arpeggio’s blimp is still en route to pick up the battery from Bison. We  _ need _ to get on that blimp if we want to get a shot at the Clockwerk Brain. Before that though, we’ll need to get the Talons off of Bison.”

 “When’s the blimp due to arrive?” Sly asks.

 Bentley grimaces. “Two days,” he says.

 Sly whistles. 

 “Yeah,” Bentley commiserates. “So we need to get to work right away.”

 He bends over in his seat and rummages around in his bag of gear, pulling out a pair of boots and some gloves.

 “First things first, you’ll be scaling a lot of ice,” Bentley says, passing Sly the equipment. The boots look like slim lined snow boots, but there’s a little slot in the front; the gloves have little fabric loops attached to them as if something is meant to attach to them, with thick padded palms.

 “When did you find time for these?” Sly asks dryly.

“I always come prepared,” Bentley says. “And these are going to be necessary. Tap that little button on the inside of the boot’s heel.”

 Sly does, and a sharp, sturdy blade springs out, scaring the shit out of him; he nearly drops it.

 “It’s rudimentary, but effective,” Bentley says. “Those gloves attach to special freehand climbing hooks. Use the two to climb up the ice sheets; without many trees left, you’re going to have to make use of the rocky cliffs here.”

 Sly can already feel his limbs tiring in protest, but he appreciates the thought.

 “Now, since this lumber camp isn’t on any of my maps, and Bison’s system is extremely limited, I need  you to do some good old fashioned recon.”

 “No problem,” Sly says, pulling on the boots and clicking his heels together repeatedly, checking the blades. Bentley helps him attach the little hooks, which fold in and out when not in use. 

 Finally, Bentley hands him a beanie.

 “What does this do?” Sly asks eagerly.

 Bentley looks at him. “It keeps you warm,” he says dryly. “It’s freezing out there.”

 Sly laughs, and pulls it on. “Alright, I’ll see you two in a couple of hours then, shall I?”

 “Be careful,” Bentley says. “Bison knows we’re coming, this time.”

 Sly waves a hand dismissively, and heads on out into the aching cold. It hits him like a brick to the face and he rolls his shoulders, glad his feet are warm at least. 

 Unsure where to begin (he’s so used to Bentley’s directions) he decides to find some high ground first, and makes his way to the jagged cliffs weaving in and out of the landscape. He clicks his heels, feeling the little blades jolt out, feeling very much like Dorothy, and extends the glove’s hooks, making his away up the cliff.

 It’s tiring, but very doable; he scales roughly forty feet in about ten minutes, and pulls himself onto the overhanging ice and rock, deciding to just stand there for a minute to catch his breath.

 Now that he’s on top, he can see the scab Bison’s made of the land. It isn’t as big as the original camp in Nunavut, and the buildings much more ramshackle, older.

 There’s a particularly big building in the distance; peering it through the Binocucom, he can see a little chute attached to it, from which logs roll out at regular intervals.

_ Right then _ , he thinks, making his way along the cliff top towards it. The cliffs slope down a little after maybe a mile, and he uses the opportunity to make his way  back down the cliffs.

 This far north, it’s permanently twilight at this time of the year, which means most of the guards are using easy to identify flashlights. He doesn’t find it difficult to avoid them, coming up close to the sawmill blades he saw earlier. He snaps a picture for Bentley.

 “ _Those sawmill blades look particularly old,_ ” Bentley says after a couple of minutes. “ _I guess this logging camp has been around for a while._ _Keep scouting around, Sly. I’m compiling a map now._ ”

 Sly climbs up and over the big cabin, trying to figure out where to go next. He takes photos here and there of things he usually wouldn’t, like the walk ways, the guards. 

_ “This is great, thank you, Sly. Try and make your way over to that lighthouse- I can see it at the edge of those photos.” _

 “Sure thing,” Sly replies, jumping off the cabin onto another rock out cropping. He’s about halfway over to the sea facing cliffside when he goes to climb down onto a low rock and nearly yells.

 A huge, prehistoric bear on four legs is walking just below the little cliff, and Sly stares at the evolutionary dinosaur in disbelief.

 “ _ Bentley,” _ he breathes, afraid to draw its attention. 

_ “Send a picture,”  _ Bentley says immediately. Sly manages to take out the Binocucom with shaking hands and send him a snap.

 There’s complete silence down the line, and then suddenly:

 “ _ What the  _ fuck _ is that?” _ Bentley exclaims, utterly bewildered.  _ “Is that- is that what I think it is? And why on  _ Earth _ is it emitting a radio signature?” _

__ Sly swallows, leaning in closer. He knows it can’t climb without opposable thumbs up a sheet of ice, but this is terrifying in a way that reminds him of the old mummy in Prague- this shouldn’t  _ be _ here. He can hear Bentley frantically scrabbling for any information down the line, and Sly just watches the bear dodder around. It looks malnourished, but its paws are bigger than his head. He has no doubt it would break his neck if it wanted to.

 “ _ Okay, okay,”  _ Bentley says.  _ “Here’s my theory. I’ve noticed in a lot of the photos you’ve sent that this cliff range is mostly made of ice, and that Bison has in fact drilled through a lot of it- it’s quite possible that the bear was frozen and he accidentally dug it out.” _

__ “Okay, that doesn’t sound too unlikely, but how is it  _ alive?” _ Sly hisses, ducking a little as the bear looks around in his general direction.

 “ _ This is where my hypothesis gets a little... off the rails,” _ Bentley says miserably. “ _ I propose that Bison, having also been from an earlier time, felt a sentimental attachment to the bear and got Arpeggio to revive it, much like Arpeggio likely revived himself.” _

__ Sly squints. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but that is the most ridiculous thing I think you’ve ever said. And I saw  _ ghosts _ , Bentley, like a month ago.  _ Ghosts.” _

__ “ _ Ridiculous it may be, but don’t get close to that thing for the love of  _ God, _ Sly.” _

__ “I don’t plan on it,” Sly mutters, watching it pad around and out of sight. “Are they just.. letting it wander around?  _ Jesus.” _

__ “ _ Bison must have some way of controlling it _ ,” Bentley says thoughtfully.  _ “Keep looking around.” _

__ Sly very carefully makes his way over to the lighthouse, and passes a cabin a little way up the cliffside with an absurd, prehistoric yak skull on the front.

_ Yikes. _

 “I wonder who that could belong to?” Sly says to himself, and snaps a photo.

 “ _ I wonder who that could belong to,”  _ Bentley says dryly a couple of seconds later.

 “I know, right?” Sly grins.

 “ _ About halfway there with that map, Sly. You’re doing great.” _

__ He comes to the coast line after roughly half an hour. A couple of boats mill around, startlingly modern by comparison to the wooden buildings. He sends photos of them to Bentley, who immediately sounds a lot perkier.

_ “That boat is hooked up for wifi,” _ he says.  _ “See that tiny little metal nub on the top of the mast? It’s automated- no-one’s in there. Bizarre.” _

__ “I’m about to head out to the lighthouse,” Sly says, eyeing detritus and wood floating in the bay. 

_ “Try not to fall in the water,” _ Bentley replies.  _ “The cold will kill you before you could even drown.” _

__ “Thanks, Bentley,” Sly says, and shuts down the commlink so he can focus, leaping across the various logs and metal sheeting that Bison has so caringly dumped into the ocean. Up close, the lighthouse looks as rustic as the rest of the camp, half frozen and battered. Sly climbs onto the decking surrounding it,  grateful to be back on solid land, and finds a cracked vent just small enough for him to squeeze through into the old tower.

 He comes out, dusty and cold, behind stacks of crates in a separate little storage room that’s blocked off by a patchy metal grille. Peering over the crates, he can see Jean-Bison on the other side of the room, staring out the window. The old bison looks a little thinner, but still as brutally powerful as ever. Sly shrinks behind the crates a little.

 Meanwhile, a bizarre looking device circles around the room on a rail at high speed. Sly can feel his fur standing on end, a low buzzing in the air. He snaps a picture of the little machine, hoping Bentley can make more sense of it, and then another photo of the bizarre block of metal suspended above it. He watches Jean-Bison shift from his position at the window and start to walk around, coming uncomfortably close but failing to notice him in the low light of the room.

_ “That spinning coil is working in conjunction with the suspended charger… but where’s the battery?”  _ Bentley asks in dismay.  _ “I’m going to have to think on this one. Check to see if the front door is locked, and grab a shot of Bison while you’re at it.” _

__ The door  _ is  _ locked from the inside- with a hefty padlock. Odd. Perhaps the old bison is feeling a little paranoid. Sly takes photos of the both of them, just as Bison starts mumbling to himself; Sly flicks the Binocucom’s microphone on for Bentley.

 “Come on, Jean,” Jean-Bison rumbles. “The Lumberjack Games need more competition… what would draw some more competitors…” He stamps his staff on the ground a couple of times, the Talons grafted onto it cutting through the dim light. Glancing at them seems to inspire him; his face lights up. “Perhaps if I put these up as a trophy… that ought to get more of the boys to join in… though who am I kidding, I’m gonna win just like any other year…”

 Then Bentley says the words Sly has been dreading. 

 “ _ Come back to the safehouse. These... “Lumberjack Games”... have given me an idea.” _

-

“So,” Bentley says, “Jean-Bison has unknowingly thrown down the gauntlet. With the Talons as a trophy, we’d be  _ fools _ not to participate in the Lumberjack Games.”

 “Don’t,” Sly begs. Bentley ignores him.

 “Of course, none of us are skilled lumberjackers,” Bentley begins, and Sly throws his hands up.

 “Yes, exactly, none of us know how to chop wood. Let just  _ steal  _ the Talons,” Sly exclaims.

 “You really don’t want to compete in these Games, do you,” Bentley says dryly.

 “Lets  _ do it _ ,” Murray roars.

 “We are all  _ clearly _ not from around here,” Sly points out. 

 “Yes, but I’m really heavily banking on the fact that Bison is an idiot bound by a code of honor, and that he won’t be able to see through our disguise kit,” Bentley replies. “None of us are strong enough to fight him- no offense Murray- and we don’t have enough time to just  _ steal _ the Talons.” Bentley turns his head back to Murray.

 “In any case Murray, I’ve downloaded some wood chopping tutorials for you, since you’re the strongest. Brute strength is important, but you’ll need to understand some of the finer mechanics as well.”

 “No problem,” Murray says, cracking his knuckles.

 “Now, to the other issue- we need to somehow sneak on board Arpeggio’s blimp when he arrives,” Bentley says, flicking to the photo Sly took of the charger. “We’re going to pull a classic Trojan Horse maneuver and actually stow away inside the battery.”

 “I’m assuming the battery won’t be filled with energy in this case?” Sly interjects.

 Bentley grins. “Correct. I suspect that charger is running via cables through the water to the actual battery itself- but before we drain the power out, we need to actually  _ find _ the blasted thing. I’m quite certain it’s been concealed, so this is where you’ll need to do some snooping, Sly.” He flicks to a picture of Bison’s house. “Not to mention, I also need you to bug his house.”

 Sly rubs his hands together. “Easy.”

 “Once these jobs are done, it’ll make things a lot easier. This round is all on you Sly- sorry.”

 “All good,” Sly reassures him. “I’ll head out now and do some quality snooping, shall I?”

 “Be careful of that bear,” Bentley warns him. “It seems that Bison has attached a GPS device to it, which I’ve tagged in your Binocucom so it doesn’t ambush you. He seems be using some sort of shock implant to control it- and it seems to be hanging around his house in particular.”

 “How cute,” Sly mutters, leaving the cabin. “Like a huge prehistoric guard dog.”

-

While Sly eavesdrops on the guards for information on the battery and breaks into Bison’s house, Murray watches the videos on how to split wood properly and sets up outside, practicing on old cut logs set aside for the cabin’s fire.  

 A couple of tries and he gets into the motion, focusing on not only his arms but his shoulders too, checking that he’s cutting with the grain. At first it takes a good ten times to split the wood; after an hour, he manages to split it in maybe three.

 “Looking good,” Bentley says from the cabin doorway, a mug of hot chocolate in his hand. “Here, take a rest.”

 Murray gratefully takes the mug, feeling his hands protest the moment he lets the axe handle go. Bentley brushes some ice off the little bench outside the main entrance, and they both sit there, Murray enjoying the warmth between his hands. 

 “What you doing in there?” Murray asks him between sips.

 “A few different things. Tracking Sly, checking Carmelita to make sure she hasn’t somehow followed us. Trying to figure out what Neyla is up to is the main thing though.”

 “What’s Carmelita up to?”

 “She’s left Canada as far as I can tell,” Bentley says, scratching his chin. “I suspect she’s gone to England to try and dig up something on Neyla, since Neyla used to live there.”

 “I hope she finds something,” Murray muses. “It feels so weird to not have her on our tails.”

 “I suppose she is an essential part of the master thief experience,” Bentley mutters.

 “Why don’t you like her?” Murray asks over his mug of hot chocolate.

 Bentley stares at him, and lists it off on his fingers. “One, she’s a cop. Two, she’s extremely narrow minded. Three, Sly is substantially more likely make mistakes when she is in the equation. Fourth, she’s likely to eventually break Sly’s heart. Fifth, in case you forgot, she’s a  _ cop _ .”

 Murray shrugs. “Okay, okay. Fair enough. But I don’t think she’s so narrow minded anymore. And I  _ also  _ don’t think she’s going to break Sly’s heart.”

 Bentley rolls his eyes. “Murray, even if she was  _ madly _ in love with Sly, it would never  _ work. _ ”

“I think they’ll make it work somehow,” Murray says sagely.

 “Ridiculous,” Bentley mutters.

-

Sly finishes installing the final bug just on the beam above Bison’s bed. Much like his cabin in the original camp, tawdry rugs decorate the walls and floor, and the place smells like sawdust and fire. Sly climbs back out through the window , grateful for the cold air, and sets to tailing a couple of guards that look a little more weathered than the others. When they stop to have a smoke, he shimmies on the roof closer to them, pulling his beanie off so he can hear them better. For the most part, it’s just chatter about the cold, the Northern Lights, work...

“I can’t believe he kicked Jim and Barry out of their silo so he could put that weird battery thing in,” one of the guards say, sucking on his cigarette. “We wait around here for several months, chopping these old trees down and getting constantly harassed by the rangers, and what do we get? Kicked out of our homes!”

 “Careful,” the other guard hisses. “If he hears you, he’ll sic that monster bear of his on you.”

 The guard looks about nervously, stamping his cigarette out. 

 Sly grins, pulling his beanie back on, thankful he doesn’t have to spend the rest of the night on the rooftops listening to meatheads any further.

-

 “They’re hiding the battery in the silo near Bison’s house,” Sly tells Bentley, hanging his coat up after he closes the cabin door behind him. “His employees aren’t happy about it. He kicked a couple of people out of it so they could strip it down to make room.”

 “Okay,” Bentley says, thinking hard. He gestures Murray over, and they sit around the projector.

 “As good as Murray has turned out to be with an axe,” Bentley begins, “Jean-Bison is a powerhouse. We can’t afford to lose, so we’re going to do what we do best. Cheat.” Bentley flips the slide to a photo of the bear. “Now, because this plan isn’t convoluted enough already, we’ll be getting a little... dangerous as well. Murray, I’ll need you to lure that bear into destroying several of the oil pumps around the area, and stay out of sight while you do it. I don’t want Bison to know we’re here, which is why I’m not going to use explosives.”

 Murray pumps his fist. “I can take it,” he proclaims. “It’ll be like fighting a dinosaur.”

 “The idea is that we’ll cause a bit of chaos and ideally, halt a large part of their production, thereby making the workers restless and also saving the environment a little. Jean-Bison will be getting pressure on several fronts; ideally, it’ll make him more inclined to make sure the Lumberjack Games are fair.”

“That sounds pretty dangerous, Bentley,” Sly says, frowning.

“It definitely is,” Murray grins.

“Murray, I’m actually going to give you a buzzer that’s synched to the same frequency as the shock collar that Bison uses to control the bear. If it gets too close to you, you’ll be able to use the collar to incapacitate it.”

 “Oh,” Murray says, looking disappointed.

“Now, that battery is going to need some major modification if we’re going to hide inside of it,” Bentley says thoughtfully. “Arpeggio’s played a hand in setting it up, and now I’m sure there’s underground cabling running along the bed of the bay up into that silo, charging the battery.”

 He changes the photo to the one Sly took of the lighthouse.

We’ll need to drain it with the use of some metal grappling hooks and cable wires, and then we’ll all need to break into the lighthouse together to actually sever the flow of power completely.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Overall, this plan has a 97% chance of success.”

 “Reassuring,” Sly says.

 “Murray, you’re up first. I’ve marked all the oil pumps on the binocucom, and here is the button for the bear’s collar.”

 Murray takes the little fob from Bentley, and pulls on his jacket.

 “Please don’t punch the bear,” Bentley begs him.

 “I make no such promises,” Murray proclaims, and slams the door behind him.

-

Murray follows the bear’s GPS signal across the camp, keeping to the edges and avoiding the guards. Finally, he comes to the bear, padding about in the clearing. The guards give it a  _ wide _ berth, and up close, Murray can’t blame them. The thing is three times the size of him, and  _ nasty _ to boot. Murray’s excitement to fight a dinosaur bear is considerably damper now that he can see the thing’s wicked claws. 

 But Murray isn’t a quitter, so he creeps forward, checking the GPS locations of the oil silos before he makes the immediately regrettable decision of slapping the thing on its rump.

 The bear rears up on its hind legs and Murray is  _ running _ , a primal fear overtaking him, fumbling for the fob in his hand. He presses it as he rounds the corner, guards preemptively scattering before they can even see him, the bear’s roars echoing across the camp.

 Murray feels, retrospectively, this was not Bentley’s best idea.

 He dives out of the way as the bear goes to town on the silo, huddling around the corner.

 “Bentley,” Murray says, “That bear is really  _ big _ .”

 “ _ Yep,” _ Bentley says, equally as nervous. 

 “It’s destroyed one of the silos,” Murray says. 

_  “Three more to go,” _ Bentley says with optimism that doesn’t particularly strike Murray as real.

-

“ _ They’re all broken,”  _ Murray says down the line about twenty minutes later, sounding breathless.

_ “ _ Good work,” Bentley says with very real gratitude. “Go wait down by the cliffs near the bay out of sight, Sly and I will meet you down there shortly.”

 Sly slides his jacket back on, and Bentley layers himself up, the cold blooded one of the group, slipping portable heatpacks into his pockets. It was just bearable in Nunavut Bay, but this is beyond cold now. He feels like, and vaguely resembles, a marshmallow. The two of them lock up and make their way down to the camp, Sly scouting ahead.

 “I can’t believe Murray pulled that off,” Sly confesses.

 “I will confess,” Bentley says reluctantly, “That I am definitely at my limit in regards to concocting ideal plans out here.”

 “They can’t all be winners,” Sly says, holding a branch up for Bentley to go under. As they near the camp, they quiet down, skirting the camp’s edge. Murray is waiting for them near the waterfront, and Sly peels off to climb the battery silo.

 “I need to get onto that boat,” Bentley tells Murray, pointing to the closest fishing boat.. “Once I’m done on there, I’ll bring it closer to shore so you can throw me to the next one.”

 Murray gives a thumbs up, looking very tired but cheerful. “No prob,” he says, picking up Bentley, who retreats into his shell as best he can. Murray tosses him with perfect aim, and Bentley feels the thud of the ship’s wooden deck beneath him.

 He pokes his head out, feeling the boat gently rock beneath him, and climbs to his feet, filling his clothes back out properly. Murray waits over on the shore as Bentley jacks his laptop into the rudimentary piloting system, where he has his first proper interaction with Arpeggio’s coding style.

 It surprises him, the depth of complex security for such a basic system, several layers that appear one after the other with cold precision. After a couple of frenzied minutes in which he prevents several alarms going off, he manages to override it completely and sets the boat on course, coming close enough for him to see Sly up on the silo, squatting patiently.

 “I’m about to shoot the grappling hook,” Bentley says. “You may want to stand back a little and get ready to catch it.”

 “ _ No problem,” _ Sly says, straightening and turning to the side, his cane held out like he’s about to play baseball. Bentley quickly calculates the angle and trajectory of the hook, then fires; Sly snags it out of the air and follows Bentley’s instructions on how to correctly attach it to the nub of the battery.

 “ _ All done.” _

__ “We’ll move to the next boat,” Bentley replies quickly, carefully lowering himself off the boat onto some detritus near by and back to Murray.

-

 While Bentley and Murray go to the next boat, Sly checks the location of the bear; it’s on the other side of the camp, thank  _ God _ . 

 “Bentley, you sure no-one’s going to notice the grappling lines?” Sly says a little doubtfully, watching Bentley and Murray creep along the coast.

_ “If I’m being honest, a lot of this plan is relying on Bison’s guards to be as stupid as he is,” _ Bentley replies in a low voice. Sly grimaces. He trusts Bentley and understand he’s working on very limited resources on even more limited time, but he’s not exactly reassured. Another ten minutes or so pass and Bentley’s voice stirs once more.

 “ _ Shooting the second hook now.” _

__ Sly braces himself, snatching the hook and attaching it once more.

 “Almost done,” Sly says.

 “ _ The moment you attach the final hook, you better get off of that thing,”  _ Bentley warns him. “ _ The discharge will be quite powerful.” _

__ “Noted,” Sly says distastefully, stretching his legs. Twenty more minutes of waiting later, and his feet are getting sore when Bentley chimes in, sounding weary.

 “ _ That was tough,”  _ Bentley exclaims.  _ “Arpeggio really knows his stuff. Get ready for the third hook.” _

__ Sly attaches it once more and immediately leaps off the top of the silo, feeling his fur start to crackle.

 “ _ Brilliant,”  _ Bentley says.  _ “We’ll make our way to the lighthouse- you’re going to need to climb to the top and enter through the hatch so you can let us in.” _

__ “I’ll let you know when I’m done,” Sly promises, and makes his way over the cabins and through the snow, avoiding the lights of the hulking guards.

 He steps out of the wind breaking cliffs and the ocean air crashes into him. His fur’s mostly grown back from the shave in India, but he wishes he had his proper winter coat grown in. The strong wind makes for an easy trip though; he parasails over with ease, landing nearby the long sheet of ice stretching up the lighthouse in the water facing side.

 Tapping his heels together and unfolding the hooks, Sly deftly makes his way up. He’s about halfway when he hears the air whistling and through some miracle of instinct, lets one side go entirely so he swings to the side, narrowly avoiding an icicle half his size that crashes down, splintering on the deck dozens of feet.

 He hangs there for a second, feeling his heart pump frantically, before latching back up onto the ice. Looking up, there’s several icicles hanging there, perilously sharp and cold. Resuming making his way up, he watches them like a hawk, moving with much more caution. 

_ At least the ice is holding, _ he thinks, which naturally is the moment he feels it crack beneath him.

 He freezes, glancing upwards. He’s close to the top. So close. And once the ice shatters, he won’t be able to get back up there-

 Sly makes a split second decision, bunching up every muscle in his body and springing upwards as the ice shatters and falls away, managing to close the fingers of one hand on the very lip of the top deck, grunting as he pulls himself up.

 “I’ll be down shortly,” he pants.

 “ _ We’re waiting downstairs now,”  _ Bentley replies, and after Sly can breathe a little easier, he rolls to his feet and opens the hatch, climbing down the little metal ladder and dropping to the top floor.

There’s a control panel at the top, what he assumes is controlling the charger, but it’s clearly alarmed, and Sly suspects that’s why Bentley needed to come here himself. Making his way down the spiral staircase, the flashing lights of the charger and the vibration in the air makes him uneasy; His fur stands on end, electricity tingling through his fingers. He picks the lock to the door.

“Welcome to my home,” he says, opening the door. Bentley and Murray come in, Bentley carrying the thick padlock that was on the inside of the lighthouse when Sly first crept in.

 “Bison’s very paranoid,” Bentley says bemusedly. 

 “With good reason,” Sly points out, and Bentley laughs. 

 “Let me at the charger,” Murray exclaims. “It’ll be slag in  _ minutes! _ ”

 “Not so fast,” Bentley says. “I need to power down the alarms on the lever upstairs. Sly, go back up and wait for my signal.”

 “Up, down, up, down,” Sly mutters. “Why can’t they ever have a  _ lift.” _

__ But he makes his way back up and waits for Bentley’s command; when the turtle yells up, he flips the switch off.

 Almost immediately, the air loses its tingle, and the only light in the entire tower is the dusk coming through the windows. The little spinning coil slows to a stop. He carefully makes his way back down the stairs to where Bentley and Murray are waiting.

 “Now Murray,” Bentley says, “I need you to break this part specifically, okay? Nothing else.” He’s holds up a thick cable. “Bison won’t be able to fix this in time, it’s made of a special conductive alloy.”

Murray looks disappointed. “That’s all?”

 “Sorry Murray,” Bentley says, grinning a little. Murray wraps his hands around the cord and snaps it apart with ease. Bentley tucks it back down out of sight.

 “It’s been awhile since we did a job together properly,” Sly says. “It’s nice.”

 “Let’s be sentimental back in the safety of the safehouse,” Bentley advises. “Bison will probably be making his rounds shortly.”

 They leave, Sly using his picks to lock the door back up; Bentley snaps the padlock back on the front. It looks like nothing happened at all.

-

After they make their way back to the lighthouse, Sly collapses into a nap, and Murray makes some food after tucking a blanket over the exhausted racoon.

 “D you want anything to eat, Bentley?” He asks. Bentley, who is hunched over his desk preparing the plan for the final heist, doesn’t even look up.

 “That’d be great, thanks,” he says absently, rubbing the bridge of his snout. “Can you get me my bottle of water as well?”

 Murray fetches it for him while their portable microwave whirs. 

 “This is going to be a stretch,” Bentley mumbles to him.

 “Why?”

 “This plan isn’t exactly as… well thought out as my previous ones. Usually I have a lot more information, a lot more access tech wise. I’m relying a lot on timing and Bison’s nature, here.”

 “It’ll be fine,” Murray says reassuringly, slapping him gently on the back. “We always pull through.”

 Bentley grimaces, though Murray supposes that might just be because he probably hit Bentley a little too hard by accident.

-

He’s in the air, strapped to the jetpack Bentley made him, it’s so  _ hot _ .

“ _ Sly! _ ”

 He looks around for her, for Carmelita, where is she-

 Sly sees her, trapped in metal debris slowly melting into the bubbling magma, and even though he aims the jetpack down at full speed, it’s like he’s moving through molasses.

 “ _ Help me! _ ” she screams, eyes wide, looking up at him, and he’s trying, why can’t he move?

 It’s not molasses, but  _ claws _ , wrapped around him, the Talons poking into his stomach.

 He manages to turn around as a black shadow falls over him, two golden, glowing eyes piercing through darkness.

_ You’ll never be rid of me, _ a dreadful voice rumbles, and those Talons clench, pain ripping through him.

 His eyes fly open, sweat dripping down his forehead. It’s uncomfortably warm in the little cabin, and even as he sits up, he sees Murray open a window.

 “Sorry Sly,” Murray says, wiping his forehead. “I think there might have been a bit of kindling mixed in with the wood I just put in, the fire went a little crazy.”

 “All good,” Sly croaks, reaching for his bottle of water. 

 “Just in time Sly,” Bentley says. “Come over here. It’s time for the heist.”

 “Hooray,” Sly mutters, climbing to his feet and joining them at the table.

 “So, the Lumberjack Games are upon us,” Bentley says nervously. “Now, despite Murray’s strength and his study of technique, none of us are strong enough to beat Bison at his own game. So, of course, we will be cheating. 

 “Murray, you’ll be the participant in the power log chopping competition. Get as good a score as you can, then let Bison take his turn. Sly will have gone to his food pantry prior to this and drugged his food, making him unable to focus properly and ideally, he will get a lower score than usual.”

 “What food will I be drugging?” Sly asks dubiously. 

 “Bison is a big fan of porridge,” Bentley says. “With full cream milk. If you drop a good portion of codeine into it, with his size it won’t knock him out, but it’ll definitely slow him down. Which will be handy, as I have you down for the ice wall climbing challenge. They won’t be able to see that you’re outfitted with those boots and gloves, so you should have no trouble beating Bison.”

 Sly relaxes. “This sounds a lot more doable, Bentley.” 

 “I think so as well,” Bentley nods. “I’ll be taking the final round, for the log rolling competition. With my light weight, it should be easy.”

 “You really think Bison will just hand the Talons over when we win?” Sly asks.

“I hope so,” Bentley says, “Because if he doesn’t, I’m going to have to pull some Macgyver style nonsense to get good enough equipment to steal them from him. But his workers are very agitated, very cold, and very far away from their families and friends. It’s statistically likely he’ll give them up, at least temporarily, for appearances, to try and get them off his back.

“Now, the games start tomorrow morning at ten. Sly, you head out and break into his house once he leaves for his rounds before breakfast. I’ve set your alarm, and I recommend you get an early night’s sleep.”

 “Sure thing, “Mom”,” Sly grins, and winces when Bentley smacks his arm with a rolled up paper.

-

The cells are cold, high, sharp white. Sly lays there, watching as Drummond pokes a needle into his arm. It doesn’t hurt; Sly watches with a clinical sort of interest, as the dog injects some sort of black substance into his veins.

 “You are a fool,” Drummond says in a dark voice that isn’t his own, and his fingers are made of sharp metal. The needles seems to be endlessly full of that dark liquid. Sly realises it’s motor oil, and he struggles to push Drummond away, and falls off the table, onto snow that sends a dull, aching cold through him, crunching beneath his bare knees. He looks up, and he’s back in Nunavut Bay, and Carmelita is lying cold and broken on the ground several feet away. He crawls over to her, his heart in his throat, her long hair swirling through the snow.

_ Carmelita, _ he tries to say, but a gurgle comes out of his mouth; blood streams from three sharp slits in his throat, pouring hot and thick and sizzling into the snow beneath him.

 Carmelita turns to him and opens her eyes.

 They shine a bright gold, mechanical, and he tries to scream but blood just pours back out, and when she opens her mouth she makes a shrill sound-

 Sly opens his eyes, sweating, resigned. His alarm clock goes off next to him and he turns it off, pulling his gear on and getting his cane.

 He welcomes the sharp cold morning air, making his way down to the camp. With the oil sumps down and power not going to the saw mills, half the camp is unable to work, still sound asleep in their cabins. He crosses the roof tops to Jean-Bison’s cabin, ducking his head in the window to check it’s empty. When he confirms it’s clear, he jimmies the windows back open and slips in, heading straight to the little kitchenette. There’s an old icebox near the portable stove, and he opens it.

 There’s roughly 10 cartons of milk, all open. He screws up his nose.

 “You’d make an awful housemate,” he says to himself, taking out the several vials of liquid codeine Bentley left out for him. 

-

Bentley and Murray are making breakfast when Sly returns the next morning. 

“He has a lot of milk,” Sly says. “Good thing you gave me extra codeine, Bentley. I spiked all of it.”

“Alright,” Bentley says, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s put on our disguises.”

This is Murray’s favourite part, hands down. Bentley takes out their proper disguise kit, and Sly helps Murray apply fake fur, some moose antlers. He pulls on a plaid shirt and a thick jacket, and adds a cap for the finishing touch. With a pair of gloves on and a fake nose, he thinks he looks surprisingly convincing.

 “Do I look okay?” he asks. 

 Sly gives him the thumbs up, in the middle of pulling on some plaid himself. Sly has it the easiest, aiming to pass as a fox. With a thick beanie to hide his shorter ears, he looks the part. 

 Murray looks at Bentley, and giggles. 

 “Don’t,” Bentley says irritably from behind his fake bill.

 “You don’t have any feathers,” Sly points out. 

 “Birds can go bald,” Bentley says miserably.

 “Just put more clothes on,” Sly grins, helping Bentley put on a thick scarf and pilot’s cap. The scarf is a blinding mix of colors, which Murray finds distractingly bright.

 “With that scarf, no-one will even look at your face,” Sly tells Bentley. “Or your body.”

 “Thanks,” Bentley says, extremely sarcastically. “Let’s get going.”

They make their way into town as if Bentley doesn’t look like the ungodly offspring of a platypus and a lizard. No-one spares them a second glance though, and they join the very small line for registering in the games. A bored looking fox writes their names down and they join six or seven other people milling around near stumps with piles of wood. 

 “You reckon he’s really gon’ give up the talons?” Murray hears one of the foxes says to his friend. 

 “Doubt it,” the moose says bitterly. “Like anyone will be able to beat him anyway. Remember last year? He left us all in the dirt.”

 Jean-Bison arrives ten minutes later, looking a little tired. He’s bigger than Murray expected, but he still thinks he could take the old man if he needed to.

 “So, y’all think you got what it takes, huh?” He says, stamping his staff on the snow. His eyes linger on Bentley, the only “duck” there. “Well, I’ll sure as hell let you play, I suppose…”

 He walks over to one of the stumps, and points at three ducks sitting at a table, scorecards placed down in front of them.

 “Take yer places. Jeff, Sam and Lucas over there’ll be scoring throughout the competition. Whenever yer’ ready, boys…”

 The competitors take their places; Murray takes his stance, holding his axe at the ready. 

 “First one to split their log wins,” one of the ducks calls out, sounding less than enthused. “On your mark… get set…go!” The duck pushes the button on the airhorn in his fin, and Murray immediately gets to work with the rest of them. There’s a few half hearted cheers at first, everyone expecting Bison to split the log in a single blow. But Murray, who’s next to him, sees the old man swing his axe down and miss. It’s deafening, and everyone except Murray stops to look in shock. But Jean-Bison quickly makes up for lost time; almost at the exact same moment, Murray and Bison split their logs entirely.

 “That looks like a draw, sir,” the same duck says to Jean-Bison. The bison stares long and hard at the duck, who nervously adds, “But, ah, let me check with my fellow judges.”

 After a couple of seconds, predictably, the duck advises that Bison has won. Murray can feel Bison staring at him, but he doesn’t look  back, pasting a look of disappointment on his face. 

 “Well,” Jean-Bison calls, “Good job there, my boy. You were pretty close there! Maybe next time you’ll get lucky, eh!”

 Murray smiles at him, and nods, before turning away. 

 “Let’s head over to the ice wall then, shall we?” Jean-Bison says loudly, leading them to the cliffside.

-

 “That’s a bad start,” Sly mutters to Bentley. 

 “We’ve got two rounds yet,” Bentley replies out of the corner of his mouth. “It’s likely the codeine is still kicking in.”

 “Alright then,” Jean-Bison says loudly once they’ve come to the cliffside. “We’ll take this one in turns. The climber with the lowest time wins this round.”

 The climbers all step forward, Sly included. He ends up fifth in line, watching each climber make their way to the top. They’re quick, but even if he didn’t have his equipment, he’s still be quicker.

 Bison goes before him. Despite his clear drowsiness, he still makes it up faster than anyone else.

_ But not fast enough _ , Sly thinks, readying himself beneath the ice wall, waiting for the air horn.

 The moment it sounds he springs up. Between his boots and his hooks, he easily gets purchase on tiny ledges the previous contestants struggled with, making it to the top several seconds quicker than Bison.

 As he sits on the deck hammered into the ice, he can feel Jean-Bison glaring at him.

 “What was your name there, son?” The bison asks him, as they wait for the other climbers.

 “Alex,” Sly says in crisp, American English. 

 “Ain’t seen you around before.”

 “I’ve been here for a couple of months, Mr. Bison, sir,” Sly says, looking embarrassed. “Why, I sat down from you just a couple of nights ago when you joined us at the mess hall.”

 Bison looks a little suspicious, but he nods. “Sorry son, I’m still learning some of the new faces. You’re pretty quick.”

 “Us foxes are known for it, sir,” Sly smiles.

The last climber makes it to the top, and they all use the ladder on the other side to climb back down, where Sly is declared the winner. On a hunch, Sly doesn’t go stand back with Bentley and Murray, with Bison’s eyes so carefully trained on him, hesitant for him to connect that they’re in a team together 

-

 Now they walk over to a small but deep pond, miraculously unfrozen, with a large log floating in the middle.

 “Right then,” Jean-Bison says slowly. “Finally, we have the log rolling. I’ve been going easy on y’all, so you better keep on yer toes! Good luck out there!”

 Bentley nervously steps up, the smallest competitor. Bison looks at him with mirth, which lends him confidence. Being underestimated will only work to his advantage, after all.

 Bentley is fourth, Bison last. This is clearly the round none of them expect to have any chance of winning; the competitors, hulking moose and stocky ducks, scarcely manage to hold their balance for more than a couple of seconds, barely managing to jump back off onto land before they plummet into the freezing water. Bentley looks at Bison, who is heavily leaning on his cane, eyes drooping

 Bentley’s turn goes easy enough; his prediction was right. He’s so light the log barely sinks, and he’s able to maintain a good brisk jog on it for several minutes before the judges decide to stop him there, and mark his time as the one to beat.

 “You’re a lucky duck, I’ll give you that,” Bison tells him as he waits for his turn. “But you wait. I’ll show you how a  _ professional _ does it.”

 Except Jean-Bison stumbles even as he gets on the log, barely managing to hold his balance long enough for the judges to start the timer.

 He makes it ten seconds in before he slips and lands in the water. Everyone freezes, staring at him; several moose rush forward to help him get back out, but Bison drags himself to shore, his thick waterproof jacket having staved off the worst of the cold.  

 “Don’t touch me,” he roars at the moose, who back away immediately. He glares at the judges, who look visibly cowed. 

 “The- the duck, Bentley, won, sir,” one of the judges says in a tiny voice.

 “I know that!” Jean-Bison snaps, emptying his boot out of water. He turns to look at Bentley, who feels like he’s caught in the headlights of an incoming train.

 “Well,” Bison says eventually. “I guess your team won.”

 “Yes sir, Mr. Bison,” Sly says, looking chipper.

 Jean-Bison grips the staff so hard Bentley expects it to snap, but then proffers it to Murray, who takes it in surprise.

 “Good job, boys,” Bison says, through teeth so gritted Bentley can hear them squeaking from here. “Impressive.”

 “Thank you,” Murray says nervously, looking at Bentley.

 “Well, we better clean up and head out to work,” Bentley says nervously, and they slowly make their way out of the crowd, feeling Bison’s eyes boring holes into them. 

 “Slowly, slowly,” Bentley mutters, as they round the corner. “Let’s make our way back to the cabin, careful now.”

 Now, the guards  _ do _ watch them, eyes on those gleaming Talons, and Bentley feels prickling on his neck. They come to the edge of town after making several false turns, and make their way back to the cabin, relaxing once the cover of the forest conceals them once more.

 “I can’t believe we pulled that off,” Sly says to Bentley as they come to the cabin. Murray set to getting the fire blazing, and they sit and stare at the massive staff, propped up against the wall. The Talons are sharp, wicked things. Sly stares at them intently, even after Bentley and Murray look away.

 “Nor can I,” Bentley agrees. “In any case, Arpeggio arrives tonight. We need to pack our things so that we’re ready.”

 “Idiots,” Sly mutters, tearing the beanie off and rubbing his ears. “I can’t believe they fell for it.”

 Murray reluctantly removes his moose outfit, tenderly folding everything back up, and makes them lunch. Afterwards, they all get to work, putting away their equipment. It’s about two in the afternoon when Sly stops in the middle of rolling up his sleeping bag, eyes twitching.

 “Someone’s coming,” he says.

 Bentley looks over at him. Sly holds for another few seconds, and swears.

 “It’s Bison,” he says, and then the door flies open.

 “I  _ knew _ it,” Jean-Bison says, and before anyone can say anything, he grabs his staff from where it rests near the door and knocks Bentley out, smashing him against the wall; he slides to the floor, unconscious. Sly cries out in anger, leaping towards Bison, trying to get to his head, but Bison effortlessly uppercuts him; Sly sinks to the floor. Murray tries to punch Bison, but it’s like punching a mountain for all the good it does him. 

  Bison swipes him in the head, and everything goes black.

-

 Bentley struggles to open his eyes, his head pounding. His eyelids feel like sandpaper, and he rolls his head to the side, squinting.

 They’re in a wooden room, with several control panels on the sides, and a single, intimidatingly solid steel door. Sly and Murray lay a couple of feet away. He crawls between the two of them, shaking them.

 “Come on guys,” he mutters, wincing at the pain lancing through his head. 

Sly’s the first to wake up, moaning. His chin looks swollen and there’s a graze bleeding through his fur.

 “Not so loud,” he begs Bentley. 

 “You’ll be fine,” Bentley mumbles, turning his focus to Murray. After five minutes of persistent shoving, Murray rolls over and coughs up some blood.

 “What happened?” he asks, considerably more alert than Sly. A huge bruise blossoms along his cheekbone.

 “Bison must have followed us,” Bentley says bitterly. “I can’t believe I didn’t think to check.”

 “It’s ok,” Murray says. “None of us thought to check. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

 “Yeah, Bison’s done that for us already,” Sly groans, pulling himself into a sitting position. “Where are we?”

 “It looks like we’re in the sawmill,” Bentley says, dragging a hand down his face. “In the control room, most likely. Bison must have thrown us in here while he notifies Arpeggio.”

 “What time is it?” Sly asks in a panic.

 Bentley checks his watch, and sighs in relief. “It’s only four thirty. We still have plenty of time to get out.”

 “I don’t know, Bentley,” Sly says. “I can’t  _ see _ any way out. That door is solid steel, and it slides upwards, not to the side.”

 “Let me have a go at lifting it,” Murray says immediately.

 “Don’t,” Bentley says. “That door is alarmed, and if you strain yourself too hard, you’ll only make the trauma to your head worse.”

 “Actually,” Sly says slowly, looking at something behind Bentley, “Would you be able to fit through that pipe, Bentley?”

 Bentley glances at it. “I suppose so, if I was in my shell. It looks like it leads down into the sawmill itself.”

 “If you drop down there and have a look around, maybe you can find a way to get that door open,” Sly suggests.

 “It’s as good a plan as any,” Bentley says reluctantly. 

 “I might not be able to see you down there,” Sly admits, “But signal me if something happens. Maybe I can use these controls and help out.”

 “Here we go then,” Bentley says, letting Murray pick him up. He withdraws into his shell and waits until he clatters out into the sawmill below.

 It’s dark, dimly lit; several logs are suspended overhead, and the mill’s currently not in operation. Bentley squints, waiting for his eyes to adjust, when someone clears their throat gruffly behind him. Bentley swings around, turning the comm system on immediately.

 It’s Bison, of course, looking substantially more alert than he did several hours ago, towering over Bentley.

 “Well now, Candy Britches,” Jean-Bison says darkly. “I shoulda figured a puny little turtle like you would have found a rat hole to squeeze through.”

 Bentley grimaces at the phrase  _ rat hole _ , talk about outdated racism, casting wildly about for a way out of this.

 “Well, uh, just dropped my glasses, had to come pick them up,” he says loudly, smiling nervously. He can see Sly’s silhouette through the frosted windows overhead, moving rapidly between controls. 

 “I ain’t like you, boy,” Bison says, obliviously. “I ain’t stupid. Once I knocked your gang out, my boys came up and cleared out all them Clockwerk parts you had in that fancy automobile of yers. Now  _ that’s _ stupid, storin’ em all in one place.” He laughs. “Arpeggio plunked down a king’s ransom for the lot! I even threw in the Talons,” he adds, stamping his now bare staff down for emphasis.

 Bentley is horrified. “You  _ sold _ the Clockwerk parts?! Arpeggio has them  _ all?!” _

 Sly crackles to life, making a noise of agonised horror.

 “Lucky thing he arrived early, too,” Bison says. “Took a good hour to move all that metal onto his blimp! He’s gonna head off any second now with that battery. I’m a rich man, thanks to you three.”

 Bentley steps backwards, searching for something, anything, to get out of this, to salvage the situation spinning wildly out of control

 “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Bison says, coming forward slowly, his eyes shining out maliciously from underneath the shadow of the log overhead-

 Bentley stares at the straps holding the log up, tracing the power lines back to the control room.

 “You  _ turtles, _ ” Bison continues. “I used to know a turtle, once-”

 “Yes! Turtles,” Bentley gabbers, “We don’t know anything about wood! Or logs! Or how to chop logs! They’re so  _ heavy _ !”

 “What are you yammering on about?” Bison grunts, but Bentley is desperately trying to signal Sly. He can see that Sly’s trying to do  _ something, _ the dim lights flickering out one at a time, several sawblades individually turning, but Jean-Bison is staring at him in intent confusion.

 “Not to mention, we’re so  _ sly, _ we don’t  _ let go _ of things at all, very bad at  _ releasing _ , you could say,” Bentley says desperately.

Bison frowns at him. “What-”

 Then, mercifully, the log falls down and cracks over Bison’s head, knocking him out cold.

 “ _ Sorry,” _ Sly says, “ _ There’s so many buttons up here!” _

__ “All good,” Bentley gasps, staring at Bison, a hand on his chest. He scurries over to him and pulls off Jean-Bison’s key chain, racing back up the stairs to the control room. Fumbling through the keys, there’s a single electronic fob; he presses down, and the door slides open.

 “Arpeggio’s already here, we need to move  _ now _ ,” Bentley says immediately.

 “But- the van-” Murray says.

 “No time! No time,” Bentley says quickly, “I have my tablet in my pack, Sly has your cane, we all have our Binocucoms, it’ll have to do! We need to leave  _ now! _ ”

 He runs for the door, and Sly and Murray follow after him.  They sprint up out into the snow. Arpeggio’s blimp looms overhead, a line of guards carrying boxes up into it, but there’s no time to even look at what they’re getting into; they sprint past several guards who gawk at them, through the camp until they come to the silo. Sly climbs to the top, opening the nub of the hatch and dropping in. Murray tosses Bentley straight in and scrambles up the side somehow, closing the hatch in after him.

 It’s pitch black inside, and they all sit in silence for what feels like hours, but in reality is only minutes, their hearts battering against their chests, terrified that hatch will open up.

 Then, suddenly, the battery shudders, and they all feel it, the sense of upward motion, as the battery is lifted up onto the blimp.

 They can’t see eachother’s faces, but they can all feel it. The power in the battery may be gone, but there’s something worse in there now, thick and heavy.

 Failure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boyyyyyyyyyy i do not like this chapter at all!! but it's done now, and we can get into the Good Stuff!!!!!!!
> 
> there's a Lot of Differences between the actual game and this chapter, mainly because some of it was extremely farfetched and didn't match the way this fic has approached adapting the game. (i included the bear partly because i couldn't resist the idea of murray gearing up to punch it lmao). also, i'm of the opinion this chapter is the Most Boring because of the changers and also because we have no carmelita and no neyla and no emotional conflict. but hey guess what!!!! we get a lot of those, coming up soon! three chapters to go now! i'm excited and terrified in both measure. the next interlude will be pretty short but Very Emotionally Charged, and will likely up within two days. 
> 
> the final chapter though, thankfully, will be a Lot more true to the game, i promise. although maybe a little extra emotion and flirting, etc. hooray! i can finally work to resolve sly's PTSD arc, which was the reason I even started this fic in the first place! I think i could have played it up a little more here, but i feel like in game, this chapter was rushed- they didn't have a lot of time to Dwell on things.
> 
> also, thank you so much for the lovely comments everyone!!! they really make my day!!!


	15. interlude: patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the boys sit in the dark and wait.

Bentley turns the torch function on his Binocucom on, setting it aside so they can see. They’re still being transported upwards, dread in their stomachs, the light casting shadows that contort their anxious faces into grief-stricken caricatures.

 Murray has his head in his hands, staring at the floor.

 “Murray?” Sly tries, putting a hand on Murray’s broad back. “Are you okay, buddy?”

 “The van,” Murray moans. “What if someone steals it? What if it gets damaged?”

 Sly feels a flare of anger- Arpeggio has  _ all _ the Clockwerk parts, they have none of their equipment, and Murray’s worried about the  _ van? _ But the anger soon fades and is replaced with shame. Murray built the van from scratch, lovingly worked on it with Bentley. The van has been around for almost a decade now, built back when they were still in the orphanage. It’s been their home, more than any of their safehouses could ever be. 

 “It’ll be fine, Murray,” Bentley assures him. “No-one will find it out there, and it was well hidden in the brush. I doubt Bison found it. When all this is done, we’ll make arrangements and get it back, I promise.”

 Murray nods, but stays hunched over and miserable.

 “What are we going to do?” Sly says to Bentley hoarsely.

 Bentley looks tired. “I suspect a smaller blimp is transporting us to the main airship formation that Arpeggio seems to have cobbled together. All we can do is wait.”

 Sly crosses his arm, his leg twitching. “So that’s it? No plan? Really?”

 “Sly,” Bentley says, a little reprimanding. “Murray and I are just as worried as you are. But right now, all we can do is wait.”

 Sly looks away, shamefaced. Bentley starts fishing around in his little pack, pulling out several devices. He turns one on.

  “Good thing I had this portable modem in my pack,” he mutters, taking out his hand held tablet and plugging it in. “While we’re waiting, I can review my files on Arpeggio.”

 “Can you at least check where we are?” Sly asks.

 “Give me a second, it’s booting up,” Bentley says patiently. A couple of seconds later, the little device beeps, and Bentley peers at it. “Okay, we’re moving south-east at the moment- in an hour or so, we’ll be over the Atlantic Ocean. I assume we’re heading to Paris, so he can put the Clockwerk parts to use.”

 “He doesn’t need the battery anymore then, right?” Sly says.

 “I believe that’s the case,” Bentley says, adjusting his glasses. “He likely took it as backup. It never hurts to have some extra power.”

 Sly rubs his face. “I can’t believe of all the Klaww Gang members,  _ Bison _ got the jump on us.”

 “What’s done is done,” Bentley says firmly. “We may not have our usual equipment, but we have the element of surprise. We can turn this in our favor yet.”  

 “How long do you think we have until he gets to Europe?” Sly says.

 Bentley chews his lip. “About twenty three hours, I’d say. It’ll be tight. But if we can force him to land, maybe if we jam the GPS system or drain some fuel, it’ll buy us significantly more time.”

 “Sounds good,” Sly says. “God, why is it taking so long to pull us up?” 

 “It’s only been about five minutes,” Bentley says. 

 “It feels like it’s been three hours,” Sly grimaces.

 “Why don’t we go over Arpeggio’s case files,” Bentley suggests, as if he hasn’t memorised them and Sly hasn’t read them several times.

 “Fine,” Sly grumbles.

 “So, Nicholas Volante, alias Arpeggio, born in Italy in 1976. He was born prematurely, damaging his wings during birth, thus rendering him unable to fly,” Bentley reads crisply from his tablet. “He went to a prestigious bird-only boarding college in the Italian countryside, where his envy of his classmates and their physical capabilities would later blossom into an obsession with prosthetic engineering.”

 “He’s where the Klaww Gang got all those energy weapons, right?” Sly interjects, tracing a metal panel with his foot.

 “Indeed,” Bentley says. “He ended up in California for a time, where he created several prototypes for energy based weapons, as well as implants intended to fix his own wings. Unfortunately, his grant money ran out, and shortly after, he disappeared off the face of the earth. 

 “During this time, I suspect he returned to Italy and studied Leonardo Da Vinci’s schematics and engineering, as well as Nicola Tesla’s various lost creations. If he weren’t on the opposite team, I’d love to sit down with him and talk shop, to be honest. I suspect he’s not only incredibly intelligent, but well read as well.” 

 “Maybe have a cup of tea and a biscuit while you’re at it,” Sly mumbles.

 “In any case,” Bentley continues, ignoring him, “At some point, the Contessa commissioned him to create an early version of her hypnosis devices, which is likely when he joined the Klaww Gang and quickly turned into the de facto leader.”

 “Why do you think he wanted all the parts?” Sly says, dreading Bentley’s answer. Bentley thinks for a couple of minutes.

 “Several reasons,” Bentley says slowly. “The first is practicality; Clockwerk may have been an evil psychopath, but he created a fusion of technology, biology and magic the likes of which has never been seen. If Arpeggio could figure out that secret, he could revolutionise several different scientific fields.

 “Secondly, Clockwerk not only achieved immortality, but created a perfect prosthetic body. If the bare bones psych report I have on him is close, Arpeggio would do  _ anything _ to be able to fly, free of his limited form. 

 “Thirdly, though it hasn’t been documented, I suspect that Arpeggio was heavily bullied throughout his schooling. It’s highly likely that all of this is also a vehicle for misguided revenge-”

Bentley stops as the battery suddenly jolts and settles, muffled voices coming from outside. The battery tips to the side slightly, and is rolled for several minutes before they hear several more clicks and grunting. The three of them hold still, seconds dragging on like hours, until Bentley motions at Sly to open the hatch and look up. 

 Murray helps boost Sly up, and he very slowly unscrews the lid, lifting it just enough to see what’s going on. 

 The battery has been moved to some sort of small holding bay, among several boxes that seem to contain guard uniforms and old tech. The room is only several meters long and wide,with a single entrance- a solid door that’s locked with an electronic mechanism. Sly can pick up the wind whistling outside.

 “It’s all clear,” Sly murmurs, glancing back down at them. He climbs out, and helps Bentley up. With them out, Murray slams his shoulder into the side and tips the battery over, crawling out; they grunt and shove it back upright after screwing the top back on.

 “Seems like we’re in a storage room,” Bentley murmurs, glancing around the room. “No security cameras. That’s arrogant.”

“What will we do if someone comes back?” Sly asks tensely. 

“Let’s move these boxes around and create a partition in the corner, using the battery,” Bentley suggests. “I doubt this is a room often visited, judging from the dust, and even if someone does come in, half of this gear is redundant. If we keep the newer things in the front, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

 Murray does the brunt of the work with Sly’s help, and Bentley sets up a tiny little workstation, rummaging through boxes for anything of use. He exclaims joyfully when he finds an old laptop, booting it up and setting it to work.

 Sly meanwhile, finds some boots in the boxes of uniforms that are substantially quieter than his snow boots, and not too much thinner, perfect for sneaking at a high altitude.

 Bentley looks incredibly relieved, fingers moving so fast they might as well be blurred. “With this, it’ll make things a lot easier. I’ll be able to get straight into the wifi from this. I’ve got a rough layout of the blimp, a rough guard schedule…”

 “We can still pull this off yet,” Sly says, swapping his usual padded mask for a pair of clear, slim-lined goggles so his eyes don’t get dry from the wind. He keeps his climbing gloves on, just in case. “Do you want me to head out, Bentley?”

 “Absolutely,” Bentley nods firmly. “Let’s do this.” He taps on the keyboard quickly, and the door unlocks. “At this time in the evening, there won’t be many guards out. I’ve already marked some places in your Binocucom that look important in the ship’s plan, and for  _ God’s _ sake, don’t fall off!”

 Sly spins his cane in his hand, and glances at Bentley, feeling a little bit more hopeful, a little more in control of the situation.

 “Let’s take this bird down,” he says grimly, and steps out into the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not much to say about this- let's get to one of my most favourite sections of the game!


	16. Anatomy for Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the end of millennia old horror, or; panic attacks, broken bones, and guilt.

The moment he steps outside, the wind buffets him immediately, a punch in the chest. He grunts, glad he put the goggles on, grabbing a hold of the nearby railing while he adjusts to the odd sensation of walking during flight.

 He can see the scale of the airship now, the sheer size of it, a steampunk nightmare. Several huge hot air balloons are attached to various sections, their fire burning openly, cables and lights strung across various small sections, walkways snaking around the entire thing. Most of them have strong railing, but Sly nervously checks his paraglider is operational. They’re a long way up, and if he falls-

_ I won’t fall _ , he thinks, taking a deep calming breath, but the anxiety in his chest gets heavier and heavier.

 He begins making his way across the railing, running across some cables experimentally (he can just barely keep his balance). After a couple of minutes, he comes to the main section of the ship menagerie that Arpeggio has created; two enormous fans, a sturdy walk way stretching overhead as they spin at impossible speeds. Sly creeps over, watching the several guards on night duty doing their rounds. He’s snapping picture after picture, giving Bentley as much of a visual as possible, working out various routes. There’s a higher level further up, and a bottom level stretching beneath the main walkway; he can see guards down there too, tiny little flashlights in the dark.

 As he comes over to the other side, carefully skirting across a rotating fan, he can dimly see a relatively small but still sizeable blimp tethered off the main ship, with patterns painted onto the fabric that make Sly think of old, fine art. He frowns, climbing up a little cabin-like structure to squint and get a closer look. Something in his gut coils at the sight of it. He takes a picture and Bentley pipes up after a couple of seconds.

 “ _ My instruments have picked up large magnetic fields radiating from inside that blimp.” _ Bentley pauses. _ “You’re not going to like this, but I suspect that’s where Arpeggio is reassembling Clockwerk.” _

__ Sly’s heart stops in his chest, and he feels like he can’t get any air in. His fingers clench so hard that his knuckles pop, and he stares at that blimp, trembling.

_ “Sly?” _ Bentley asks anxiously.

 “I’m fine,” Sly manages. “I’ll find a way over there.”

 Bentley doesn’t say anything for a couple of seconds, and then says, “ _ Okay. Don’t fall, for God’s sake. _ ”

 Sly disconnects the commlink, looking for a way to get over there. A huge weather balloon stretches overhead, rope taut from being caught in the wind. If he can climb up and paraglide from there…

 Sly swallows, gripping his cane in his mouth and climbing up it hand-over-hand, muscles stretching and protesting. He comes to the top of the balloon and takes a few seconds to breathe, training his eyes on the wire extending from some sort of vent into the top of the blimp.

_ No time like the present,  _ he thinks grimly. He extends the hooks on his gloves, about to do something very stupid. The rope is at a taut angle bordering on forty five degrees; he lets go of the rope, swinging back on it with the hooks with all his power, and then launches himself off, engaging the paraglider at the same time.

 For a second that feels like a decade, the mechanism doesn’t extend, but then the sail snaps out and Sly glides over, momentum on his side from the swing. He lands on the ornamental wing of the blimp, stumbling on the fabric and struggling to get a hold of it as he begins tumbling off. He reaches out in desperation and accidentally engage the glove’s hook again, which sinks into the thick fabric and grounds him as he catches his breath. He stares at the thick weaved pattern beneath him, before looking up at the cable extending down the side. Sly takes a deep breathe, and drags himself over, pulling himself up the cable and onto the little outcropping. The vent is covered by sturdy metal slats, but Sly unscrews them slowly, precariously balanced, shoving the vent in after considering just throwing them overboard. The image of them hurtling onto a cruise boat is too much to bear.

 He crawls into the vent, taking a couple of seconds to breathe again, as the wind whistles past him. Sly has never been so terrified in his life, as he crawls through that vent, and when he comes out into the blimp itself, his knees quake, his stomach turning to ice.

_ You will never be rid of me. _

 The panic attack hits him, he’s but a flower before a hurricane, a shell before a tsunami, and Sly claps a hand over his mouth as he begins to hyperventilate, trying to stay quiet, staring at the monstrosity that Arpeggio has meticulously reconstructed. 

 Clockwerk hangs suspended in flight, surveying the guards below, looking across to a platform on the other side of the blimp. The Parts have been polished, buffed to a preen, the soft lights of the interior refracting off them. 

_ “Sly?”  _ Bentley says.  _ “Did you make it on board?” _

__ Sly somehow finds the strength to bring up the binocucom and take a photo. He can’t bring himself to talk, can’t move.

_ “I can’t believe they moved so fast,” _ Bentley says almost immediately, horrified.  _ “But don’t worry, Sly. He may be reassembled, but he isn’t… you know…  _ alive.  _ Get plenty of photos. I’m sure we can stop the before they get any further. _ ”

 Bentley’s voice breaks Sly out of his panic attack, surfacing for air, and he carefully makes his way around the blimp on its railing even as his entire body is trembling, the tips of his fingers going numb as he struggles to keep his breathing regular.

 Several strange magnetic coils circle around the blimp, similar to the ones in the lighthouse back in Bison’s camp. Sly takes several photos in quick succession, hoping that Bentley can get a good look.

 “ _ Okay. These are magnetic inducers- it looks like they’re helping hold the parts together, so the parts that are suspended by the wires… they musn’t be properly attached to everything. Get in a little closer and get me a close up of the Head, I want to check something,”  _ Bentley muses.

 Sly painstakingly makes his way across the cabling to the other side, turning around.

 Clockwerk stares him right in the face, and Sly starts hyperventilating again before he puts both hands over his mouth, shaking as he squats on the railing. The guard below him looks around, but keeps walking.

 Clockwerk stares Sly right in the eye, and all Sly can see is those eyes in a face flecked in blood, his father lolling on the floor, the Talons closing on the door he hides behind-

 One of the guards shifting and accidentally knocking their torch against the railing below snaps Sly out of it, and he brings the binocucom up, zooming in to Clockwerk’s face.

 Up close, the face is covered in tiny little nicks and scratches, the eyes not as bright as he remembered. That beak is the same though, wicked and savage. He sends the picture to the Bentley, who hums in interest.

 “ _ Okay, I’m a hundred percent sure they haven’t been able to connect the brain to the heart properly. We can  _ definitely _ salvage this. _ ” Bentley pauses.  _ “I noticed in the photo of the coils, there’s a sectioned off area at the back. From what I can make out through the tinted glass, I think it might be a small bedroom area. Go have a look and see if Arpeggio has left anything of use lying around.” _

__ Sly steps over the archway and silently leaps down as a guard passes nearby. Making his way up the stairs, he’s painfully aware of Clockwerk looming behind him, a physical weight on his shoulders.

 Coming up the stairs, the section of wall he comes to is entirely frosted, so he can’t look in, but he can hear voices. He places his ear against the glass, closing his eyes, opening the audio link to Bentley.

 The first voice is Arpeggio. He can’t make out what he’s saying properly, they’re too far from the door, but it’s undeniably Arpeggio.

 But the second voice- he can’t believe it. The hair rises on his neck, and that voice is a puzzle piece clicking into place. Of course,  _ of course _ it’s her.

_“Neyla?!”_ Bentley exclaims. _“What- oh._ _Of course. She’s been working for him the entire time, Sly! That’s how she’s been one step ahead of everyone! She’s in cahoots with Arpeggio!”_

 “Bentley,” Sly murmurs, backing away from the door, starting to shake again, “I know it’s not your style, but I need a plan,  _ now,  _ anything,  _ anything _ to stop Clockwerk from being reassembled!”   
 “ _ Well…” _ Bentley says hesitantly. “ _ Those magnetic inducers are holding most of the parts together. If you could reverse their polarity, it should rip Clockwerk apart.” _ Bentley pauses.  _ “But in that photo of the inducers, the control panel was locked down tight. Climb up there and plug the binocucom in, and I’ll see what I can do.” _

__ Sly looks once more at Clockwerk before pulling himself back up onto the cable, making his way around to the control panel, pulling himself up onto the little platform in the shadows. Pulling the little cable out, he plugs Bentley in to the system and waits, waits, waits. 

_ “Arpeggio may be smart, but his security is the product of lax arrogance,” _ Bentley says severely.  _ “Brace yourself, Sly. This is going to be loud.” _

__ The magnetic inducers grind to a stop, and start sliding the other way, increasing in speed until they’re a blur, making high pitched noises. The guards begin to look up, gesturing; one of them runs up the stairs, nearly tripping, and slams open Arpeggio’s door. Arpeggio and Neyla rush out, staring upwards, just in time for a loud  _ crack _ as suddenly the parts snap together, the cables holding the bigger parts up tearing apart with a screech. Clockwerk falls to the platform below, rocking the blimp and crushing one guard while the other guard falls over the platform. Clockwerk’s eyes shoot out golden spot lights as the bird’s mouth opens wide.

  Sly stares in unbridled horror from the safety of the control platform.

 “What-?” Neyla begins, but Arpeggio is ecstatic, his contraption rolling forward as he surveys Clockwerk.

 “There must have been an error in the inducer code,” Arpeggio says delightedly. “But look at the result! Not only has it locked the parts into place, but it’s activated the brain’s nervous system! Excellent!”

_ “No!” _ Bentley cries in Sly’s ear.  _ “That shouldn’t have happened!” _

_  “Bentley,”  _ Sly whispers, shaking so badly he has to reach back onto the platform’s railing. 

_ “Wait, just wait, _ ” Bentley says miserably.  _ “Don’t do anything stupid, just wait, let me think-” _

__ “Finally,” Arpeggio is saying, circling around to the head. He reaches out with a wing, pressing an indentation on Clockwerk’s skull. “Neyla, fetch me the  _ casco di trasporto mentale _ .”

 Neyla nods, disappearing back up into the little bedroom.

 “Casco di trasporto mentale-  _ mental transport _ -?” Bentley says, horrified. “ _ Sly _ -”

 Arpeggio’s voice becomes soft, intimate. “Finally, I can join your circuits and be reborn, old friend,” he says. If Sly felt like ice was in his veins before, now his body goes numb.

_ “Sly, that’s Italian for _ mind transfer helmet _! He’s going to upload himself into Clockwerk’s nervous system!” _

__ Neyla re-emerges with a sleek looking helmet.

 “Thank you, my dear protege,” Arpeggio says, watching her approach. “You always understood me. The Klaww Gang members were so short sighted, so content to use the Parts for money… but you and me, my dear…”

 “Are you sure the machine will work?” Neyla asks, adjusting the helmet. “Will we really be able to use the Contessa’s machines? It sounds so crazy, that we could turn an entire nation to hatred just from some flashing lights and spices, use that hatred to power Clockwerk’s body... “

 Arpeggio looks at her disapprovingly. “I’ve told you before,” he says. “I am a  _ genius _ . I have calculated everything-  _ everything! _ ”

 “Of course, I’m so sorry, Nicholas,” Neyla says, and something seems off, to Sly, something scratching at the shell of horror that cocoons him: since when was Neyla ever subservient?

 Arpeggio relishes the opportunity to dialogue. “Of course, it’s not just hate itself… Much like the Contessa dabbled in the occult, Clockwerk’s source of power was not only of science, but of  _ magic _ too. I’m sure I’ve told you about the Hate Chip?”

 “Of course,” Neyla says, fresh faced. “It uses both magic and science to convert his hate into energy, into fuel.  You know so much, Arpeggio… You were never wrong… from leading the Cooper gang to Dimitri and Rajan… Taking out the Contessa and Carmelita… truly, your intelligence is endless.”

 Something in her tone is cloying, insincere, but Arpeggio doesn’t seem to notice. He frowns at her impatiently. 

 “Yes, yes, of course. Now Neyla, hurry up and put the helmet on for me,” Arpeggio says. “My new body awaits me, and I am long overdue for it!”

 He looks expectantly out at Neyla, his tiny wings outstretching a little for the helmet.

 But Neyla’s mouth stretches into a wide, merciless, toothy grin as she pulls a pistol from the holster next to her whip. The guard behind her freezes.

 “ _ Your _ body?” she breathes. “I think not.”

 Arpeggio stares at her in confusion. “Neyla, what are you-”

 “Stupid little  _ Nicholas _ ,” she says, eyes glinting in savage glee. “I double crossed the Cooper Gang, the Klaww Gang, Interpol… what makes you think I wouldn’t double cross  _ you?” _

_  Bang. _

__ The shot echoes through the blimp, and Arpeggio’s body falls from his carrier to the ground. The guard behind Neyla lunges for her but she turns just as quickly, shooting him in between the eyes.

 She laughs like a child, putting the helmet on and crossing to Clockwerk’s head. Sly is stunned, unable to move, willing his leg muscles to unclench, as Arpeggio’s blood leaks down towards Neyla’s feet, but he’s stuck. He’s dimly aware of Bentley saying something in the distance, but he feels like he’s in water, everything slow and unsteady, his heart thumping so hard it feels like his rib cage is cracking.

_ “Sly-” _

 Neyla flicks a couple of switches on the helmet, and plugs a cable into the huge skull of the bird, pressing buttons on the helmet; suddenly, her eyes roll into her head, sparks running up and down her frame.

_ “Sly, you-” _

 She screams. The force of it shocks Sly into movement, and he leaps onto a cable, throwing himself to her bodyy, but before he can even reach the ground, she slumps, falls.

 And then Clockwerk’s eyes blink open, shining so powerfully that their light sizzles the fabric of the blimp before them.

 Clockwerk’s wings tremble, and the bird rises to its feet. A great and powerful instinct takes hold of Sly, and as Clockwerk looks in Sly’s direction, he rolls behind one of the archways, hand over his mouth as those beams of light flicker past his hiding spot, then back to the front.

 He looks out from behind the arch as those wings beat, and Clockwerk begins to lift off the ground, and he speaks. But it isn’t that imperious, dark voice; it’s a rumbling distortion, full of clicking, feminine, and Sly stares upwards.

 “Behold,” the bird declares. “Clock-La is  _ born.” _

 And then, with a single swoop of her mighty wings, Clock-La bursts through the blimp, tearing it asunder. Sly yells as he’s dragged out into the sky, Clock-La long gone.

 Bentley is screaming in his ear, and somehow, miraculously as he plummets, Sly finds the button for the paraglider and it snaps open, catching an updraft from the burning wreckage falling below him; he manages to make it back onto the airship complex, and collapses right there on the walkway, the guards erupting in fear across the entire ship as Clock-La screeches, flying above them.

_ “-ly, get back to the storage unit right away, get out of there! Half the guards are evacuating, get over here!” _

__ “Bentley, she’s in Clockwerk, she’s  _ in Clockwerk, _ ” Sly gasps, “Help me, she-” 

 “ _ Sly, you need to get back here,” _ Bentley’s pleading,  _ “Please-” _

__ “ _ Foolish guards _ ,” Clock-La screeches, both through the speakers on the blimp and discordantly from the sky,  _ “The moment you leave the airship, I will  _ hunt  _ you _ .  _ I will  _ tear  _ you from your ships, and throw you into the unforgiving sky. You are to remain on this ship, and assist me in conquering Paris so that I may finally claim my rightful immortality. You can not escape me. I am in your navigation systems, your communicators. You can not escape Clock-La.” _

__ Sly pulls himself to his feet, staring upwards into the sky, watching her disappear behind the cover of the night and the clouds.

 “What are we going to do?” he asks Bentley.

 “ _ Come back,”  _ Bentley says.  _ “We need you to come back.”   _

__ And Sly does. He comes back to the storage unit, and Bentley and Murray are sitting there in silence, and they look up at him as he enters, that same dread in their eyes.

 Sly can’t- he can’t-

 “I can’t,” he says, dragging his eyes up to meet theirs. “I can’t do this. I could have stopped her, but it was like I was frozen to the ground, Bentley, I just stood there and  _ watched _ her, it’s all my fault-”

 Murray is suddenly in front of him, grabbing him by the shoulders.

 “Sly,” he says firmly. Sly looks at him, feeling surprise throug that panic. “None of this is your fault. Clockwerk… he’s like your Contessa, but like, a thousand times worse. What the Contessa did was awful, and it messed me up real bad. But none of it was my fault!” Murray shakes him. “What Clockwerk did to you, to your family, was  _ fucked up _ . Clockwerk killed your parents in front of you! I don’t know how you manage to get up in the morning, sometimes. But you do! You’re a  _ fighter _ , Sly, but you’ve finally reached your limit, and that’s totally okay! And this is real bad, but there’s nothing we can’t do when we’re together, okay?”

 Sly blinks up at him. “Okay,” he manages.

 Bentley speaks up from the corner. “I should have spent more time in Arpeggio’s system,” he says, ashamed. “If I had spent more time while I was there, I would have known not to change the polarity-”

 “No,” Sly says. “Bentley, it’s not your fault at all, Murray’s right. We can… we still can fix this.” He looks up at Murray, who is now holding Sly off the floor. “You can put me down, big guy,” he says, smiling weakly.

 “Oops,” Murray rumbles, and puts Sly back down.

 “We’ve been worried about you for so long, Sly,” Bentley says hesitantly. “But there was never… there was never the right time to talk to you about it.”

 “We know you haven’t slept properly for a long time,” Murray says anxiously. 

 Sly takes a deep breath. “I think… I think after all of this, maybe I need to… to see a psychologist.”

 “As long as they’re not like the Contessa,” Murray jokes weakly, and Sly laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and then he’s crying. Murray and Bentley both reach out to him, but he waves them away until the crying stops.

 “What’s the plan?” Sly says, wiping his eyes, as Clock-La screeches overhead.

 Bentley and Murray glance at eachother, but then Bentley sits down at the laptop, and they both stand over him.

 “So,” Bentley begins, as they all try to ignore the screeching overhead, “Things are looking pretty grim, to say the least. But the blimp is still in motion to Paris- half the guards may have jumped overboard, but Arpeggio’s auto-pilot system is on. It will automatically activate the light show that Arpeggio initially planned. With Neyla in possession of the Eyes and the energy machines activated, that power will give her the final boost she needs to achieve immortality.”

 He pauses, rubbing his eyes. “If that happens, that’s it. That’s the endgame, right there. But we still have a chance.”

 Bentley brings up a couple of schematics. “In her new form, she’s drawing her energy from the blimp’s engines to stay strong. The blimp has already slowed considerably, buying us another couple of hours. If we can disable the engines, she’ll be weakened- and we can take her out. In that instance, the blimp should just drift to the ground, as it’s held up by those huge hot air balloons across the walkways, and that large pair of fans.”

 Murray smashes his fist into his hand. “Alright,” he crows. 

 “This is going to be tough,” Bentley says. “The last year will look like a picnic in spring compared to this. But Neyla is still adjusting to her body, the guards are terrified, and most importantly, Neyla may be linked to the blimp’s systems, but she’s is no more a computer engineer than Murray is. We don’t have to worry about being caught like we did before. We can do this.”

 Sly exhales. “Okay. Okay, Bentley.”

 Murray puts his hand in between them all. “We got this,” he says.

 Sly chuckles without feeling, and puts his hand on top of Murray’s. Bentley follows suite.

 “Let’s  _ clock _ this bird,” Sly tries after a couple of seconds of silence, and Murray and Bentley groan, but they’re all smiling. “What?” Sly says innocently. Murray lightly punches him in the arm.

 “Let’s bring it on home,” Murray says. “For Carmelita.”

 Sly and Bentley look up at him in surprise. Sly nods, feeling optimism flicker back to life.

 “For Carmelita,” he declares.

-

Murray and Sly creep across the walkways, making their way to the power stations powering the security to the first engine room. A parachute is strapped to Murray’s back and his usual goggles are pulled down over his eyes against the wind. Sly leads the way, scouting for guards. Several times they have to turn back, but they make good time to the first one. Sly keeps watch as Murray picks up a nearby barrel and ditches it at the machine, destroying it so thoroughly the alarm doesn’t even go off.

 “Nice,” Sly says quietly, checking the binocucom. “The next one is up this way.”

 They’re halfway to the next one when Sly clears his throat.

 “Thanks, Murray,” he says quietly.

 “For what?” Murray says in confusion.

 “For everything you said before,” Sly replies, checking around the corner.

 “Oh. No problem,” Murray says. 

 “You’re really smart, you know,” Sly continues, beckoning him around the walkway. 

 “Smart? I can’t do maths or anything,” Murray says in confusion.

 “Yeah, but… there’s different kinds of smart,” Sly says haltingly. “You always seem to know what to say.”

 Murray swells with pride and Sly holds a finger to his lips as they wait for a guard to pass. Murray picks up another barrel and destroys the second power station, and repeats it for the one next to it.

 “Okay,” Sly says. “Let’s go pry open that door.”

 They’re halfway there when Clock-La swoops out of the cloud cover, and Sly manages to drag Murray behind cover as her spotlight eyes scan across the walkways, passing their little rotunda shelter.

 Murray holds stiller than he’s ever been in his life, and after a couple of seconds,they both duck their heads out, watching her swoop back into the clouds with a screech.

 “Holy shit,” Murray exclaims. “I didn’t realise- I forgot how  _ big _ Clockwerk was.”

 “You’re telling me,” Sly mutters. “Come on, let’s get moving.”

 They come to the engine room door just over the next walkway. The door is a sturdy affair, but Murray simply shakes his arms and squats, grabbing onto the bottom handrail, trusting Sly to keep guard. With the power stations broken, the lock is disengaged; all he needs to do is  _ pull. _

__ He grimaces, bracing himself, and powers upwards, the door sliding open.

 Sly and him go inside and are met with a sea of thermal lasers and crackling wires wrapped around a sparking core. The room is deeply vibrating.

 Sly listens to Bentley through the commlink, and turns to Murray. 

 “Alright, I’m going to make my way to the second level,” he says. “You wait here, this is going to be slow going.”

 Murray nods. “Alright, let me know if I can do anything.”

 Sly smiles at him, and claps him on the shoulder. “You’ve done plenty,” he says reassuringly. “I’ll be back soon.”

 Murray sits down cross legged on the metal floor, in  _ padmasana _ pose, letting himself focus and breathe. He’s shaken out of his trance when the power suddenly turns off, and Sly climbs back down the ladder on the other end of the room.

 “Okay, that’s this one done,” he says, dusting his gloves off. “I have to head off by myself for the next one, do you remember the way back?”

 Murray nods. “No problem.”

 “Don’t let Clock-La see you,” Sly warns, and heads off around the side to the next engine.

-

“The next room is locked down  _ tight _ ,” Bentley says. “There’s no way we can get in- so you’re going to have to destroy it from the outside.”

 “ _ No problem,”  _ Sly says dryly.  _ “I’ll just pull out my miniature warhead.” _

__ “Luckily,” Bentley says, electing to ignore Sly’s sarcasm, “In the storage room over by that engine room, there’s some powerful explosives. All you have to do is set the timer.”

 “ _ Are you sure this isn’t going to crash the blimp?” _

__ “Absolutely. This airship array may be a hodgepodge mess, but Arpeggio wasn’t fooling around when he created it. You need to place the explosives in a particular spot, near the power cable casings on the outside. The blast will destroy that part of the wall, but the rest of the blimp will be fine.”

 “ _ This is going to draw Neyla…  _ Clock-La’s _ attention, isn’t it _ ,” Sly groans. 

 “Potentially but right now, she’s actually flown quite far away- likely testing her wings. Quickly get this one done now, before she comes back.”

 “ _ If you hear a loud bang, it’s probably me,” _ Sly says, and disconnects the link.

 Shortly after, Murray slides open the door, looking unnerved.

 “We’re so high up,” he moans. “And Clock-La is  _ huge.” _

__ “How’s Sly doing?” Bentley asks. 

“Much better,” Murray says, sitting down. I think he’s going to be okay.”

“Me too,” Bentley nods. “What you said was absolutely right, Murray. You really have a way with words.”

 He watches Murray look pleased, and turns his attention back to his system.

 He’s currently trying to boost his internet signal, which seems to be getting jammed by something in Arpeggio’s system  _ somewhere _ . If he can get in contact with Carmelita, and send her the camera footage he managed to pull from Arpeggio’s blimp, he can clear her name- and enlist her help. 

Murray sits down and does some yoga, while Bentley works. Maybe half an hour later, there’s a huge explosion somewhere far away.

 “ _ You guys hear that?” _ Sly asks, sounding breathless.  _ “I think I singed my eyebrows off.” _

__ “As long as you’re in one piece,” Bentley grins. “For the next engine room, you and I are going to be working together. Several senior guards- the ones still actually patrolling, I believe- have the key cards we need to get into the room.”

_ “Easy. You go get into position now, this won’t take long, _ ” Sly says, and disconnects the call. 

 “I’m heading out now, Murray,” Bentley tells the hippo. “Keep an eye on the commlink like I showed you. I shouldn’t need any help, but just watch out for us, okay?”

 Murray salutes him. “No problem,” he says loudly, and takes Bentley’s place.

Bentley pulls on a parachute pack, and heads out.

 The airship array is a fascinating, Frankenstein’s Monster of an aircraft, but it’s sturdy underfoot, the railing secure. Bentley’s hesitation soon fades, until he sees Clock-La raising up from beneath the bottom level.

 He never got to see the mechanical bird in action, himself- only in designs, and in supposed death.

 A deep, deep instinct in him quails at the sight, and he flinches behind an archway as Clock-La rises, circling the the ship. He can see several guards below him quaking, doing the same. She laughs, a discordant tinny screech, and flaps over head, her body blocking any light from the moon until she disappears again.

 Bentley gulps, and keeps on going, more careful now. He makes it to the third engine room with very little trouble, to his eternal relief, like he hasn’t messed up enough already in the last day.

 He settles in next to the door, near a hidden corner. 

 “How are you going, Sly?” he says into the commlink.

_ “Almost there,”  _ Sly replies. “ _ Two more to go.” _

__ “Excellent,” Bentley says, taking out his tablet. He suspects this engine room is the one powering the signal blocker; once the power is cut, he can contact Carmelita and bring in some help.

_ “Okay, I’m heading over now, _ ” Sly says, startling him a little. “ _ Be there in five.” _

Three minutes later, Sly shows up with five keycards in hand.

 “Talk about paranoid,” he says conversationally. “Like anyone’s going to try and crash a blimp they’re still on.”

 “I told you, the blimp won’t crash,” Bentley says in mild exasperation. Sly, who looks in considerably better spirit, swipes all the cards. The door slides open, and they both enter.

 “What on earth is going on here?” Sly asks, deadpan.

 The room is full of rotating conductors, charge flowing from matching pairs on the bottom and top. 

 “A mess, that’s what’s going on,” Bentley says in exasperation, taking out his crossbow. “This is the oldest engine. It’s extremely inefficient. My guess is Arpeggio held onto it out nostalgia.”

 The floor crackles with all that power flowing through the air. Sly stares at it dubiously.

 “How do you get across this?”

 “I don’t,” Bentley says, taking a pair of rotating conductors out in quick succession. The charge dissipates, and Sly flinches.

 “I take these out, and all the power dissipates,” Bentley explains as he takes out conductor after conductor. “Arpeggio was trying to emulate Tesla with the design of this engine, but frankly, this is an insult to his name.”

 He takes out the last conductor with ease, and the air becomes calm. The two of them climb up to the next level, where Bentley starts setting small bombs near several power nodes around the door. Sly hangs back patiently while Bentley sets them off; the doors slide open, and Bentley powers down the engine for good.

 “One to go,” Sly says anxiously as they come back out into the open air, searching the skies.

 “We’re almost there,” Bentley reassures him, checking their watch. “Once this is done, the residual power will keep the blimp and Neyla afloat for several more hours, then she should weaken.”

 “What do we do in the meantime?” Sly says, eyebrows furrowed.

 “We wait,” Bentley says simply. “That engine was powering Arpeggio’s signal jammer, and with it gone, I can contact Inspector Fox and supply her with information to clear her name, and also a tracking mark on our location.”

 “You mean-”

 “Yes,” Bentley sighs. “I have no choice but to ask Carmelita for help, which I’m sure she’ll only be too happy to provide. In fact, the email should have sent already. I’ll likely hear from her shortly, and we can organise a final plan of attack for when Neyla is vulnerable.”

 Sly grins. “Carmelita will wreck her.”

 Bentley clears his throat. “You head on back to the storage unit and get some rest, Sly. Murray-”

_ “Yeah?” _

__ “You get ready to meet me. I’ll need you to come smash some stuff up.”

_ “Yeah!” _ Murray crows.  _ “Let me know when to move out!” _

__ “See you back at the storage room,” Sly says, and they part ways.

-

Sly meanders his way back, taking it slowly. Clock-La doesn’t emerge, and he can be with his thoughts, for a bit.

 He still feels that deep fear in his bones, Clockwerk preying on him, but Murray… Murray didn’t suddenly heal him, but it’s like a salve on a deep burn. He never even considered what happened to Murray was so similar to what happened to him. 

 Sly has been sick for a long time. He always shoved it aside, as something to deal with later, but that moment, when he saw Clockwerk reassembled, when his body became a slave to his mind… 

 He can’t let that happen again. 

 When he comes back to the storage room, he makes a bed out of all those spare uniforms and lays down, the commlink in his ear just in case, and sleeps.

 At first, he dreams of Clock-La, but he stares her in the face; the dream turns to black, and his slumber is uninterrupted.

-

Murray stands, waiting for Bentley to hack through the security system for the door. Bentley appears several minutes after he arrives, and logs into the terminal just outside the door.

 “This shouldn’t be too long,” he mutters. “Keep an eye out for any guards.”

 “No problem,” Murray says. Several long minutes pass, but no guards come upon them, and Bentley grunts in satisfaction when the door slides up.

 “Let’s make this nice and quick,” Bentley advises. They scurry in. Murray stares at the several canisters plugged into the ground, confused.

 “A genius Arpeggio may be,” Bentley mumbles, “but a good designer, he is not. Murray, I need you to lift all those canisters out of their sockets, then go to the second level and smash them.”

 Murray cracks his knuckles. “Let’s do this.”

 Lifting all the canisters are easy enough, though he is getting a little sore by the end of it. Bentley watches him from the entrance as he lifts the final one upwards.

 “Hip and shoulder them out of their casings, and then throw the big lever upstairs,” Bentley instructs. Murray grins, and takes great pleasure in doing so, watching the casings crack as he rams them with all his weight; some are left at odd angles, some slam back down to floor below and groan, fall to their side. The final one bends into a U-shape, stuck between floors. 

 All in all, it feels pretty good to destroy something. 

 He wipes his brow and jogs over to the control panel, heaving the lever up and shutting it down.

 “All done,” he calls back down to Bentley, heading towards the ladder.

 “Alright,” Bentley says as Murray comes down, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s go back to the storage unit. Time to take Clock-La down.”

-

Sly is jostled awake by Bentley. He yawns, stretches, feeling more well rested than he has in a long time.

 And then he jolts into panic, remembering just where he is, just what’s happened.

 “Is everything okay?” he says urgently, searching for his cane, which has slipped beneath a jacket.

 “Everything’s fine,” Bentley assures him. “Inspector Fox and I have been in contact.”

 “Carmelita?” Sly asks stupidly, the dregs of sleep still dragging at his eyes.

 “Yes,” Bentley says patiently. “She’s contacted Interpol on my behalf with footage I pulled from Arpeggio’s blimp, along with several documents. Pending further investigation, Interpol has cleared her name and authorised her to come meet us in a combat helicopter once Neyla is at peak vulnerability.”

 “That’s… that’s great,” Sly exclaims, running a hand through his hair. “When does she arrive?”

 “She’s flying to meet us now,” Bentley says. “Except, despite the signal jammer being shut down, she can’t find us- she needs a strong radio signal for her helicopter to track our location. I need you to take these chargers I picked up on our way back here and plug them into the radio towers around the blimp.” His voice is apologetic. “I would have done it myself, but they’re high up.”

 “No problem,” Sly says excitedly, stretching his legs. “Give them to me and I’ll get out there right away.”

 Bentley gives him a pack to put the chargers in, and makes sure his paraglider is clipped on properly.

 “Once those radio towers are on, Carmelita should be at your location within about ten minutes, so get somewhere easy for her to pull the helicopter up alongside you,” Bentley says. He grips Sly by the shoulders, and awkwardly brings him in for a hug.

 “You and Murray are my family,” he says quietly as they hug. “Don’t die out there.”

  Sly squeezes him tight. “Don’t worry,” he says solemnly. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

 They separate, and Murray picks Sly off the ground, crushing him. 

 “You got this,” he booms, and puts Sly back on the ground. He claps Sly on the shoulder, looking at him seriously.

 Sly nods, pulling his goggles back down over his eyes.

 At the door, he stops and smiles at them both, Bentley at his computer, ready to provide any help he can; Murray, looking restless, wishing he could punch Clock-La out of the sky.

 Not even a month later, Sly will look back at this moment, at the two of them, fit and healthy if not a little scared, and ache.

 But here and now, he grins, waves, closes the door behind him.

 Sly makes his way to the radio towers with ease, scaling them as naturally as he climbs a tree. Bentley advises him where to plug in the chargers, and he moves onto the next one, feeling like he’s on autopilot. A terrible fear in him, as he sees Clock-La every now and then, but an excitement too, to be working with Carmelita, to finally get to see her again after what feels like years, rather than simply days.

 He turns the final radio tower on, giddy, and then climbs down, moving near to the edge of the platform and waits.

 Quite aware that this is the last opportunity he has for a while to try and calm himself, he closes his eyes.

 As Sly listens to the thump of his heart, he feels the engines slow, the forward motion of the blimp stop. Perfect timing, he thinks, and his ears pick up the distant sound of what is undeniably a helicopter.

 He opens his eyes, watching a sleek chopper come closer and closer, until he can make out Carmelita’s face, her brows furrowed in concentration as she pulls up alongside the platform.

 Sly stands up, shaking out his limbs, and slides open the chopper’s cockpit door, climbing into it. He pulls on the headset she offers him. Their pinkie fingers brush, and even though they’re both wearing gloves, he feels an undeniable jolt in his stomach. 

 Once the headset is on, he gives her a thumbs up.

 “It’s good to see you,” he says genuinely, unable to stop smiling. 

 She smiles back at him. “I _ t’s good to see you too _ ,” she replies, her voice crackling a bit over the radio. “ _ It’s a shame it’s not under better circumstances _ .”

 “I’m sure soon enough, we’ll be back to our usual shenanigans,” Sly jokes, but her smile drops a little, and he immediately wishes he hadn’t reminded her of it.

 “ _ Look, Sly _ ,” she says. “ _ For once, let’s cut the flirty chit chat, and get down to business. I need an experienced gunner. Grab that gun. We’ve got a bird to take down. _ ”

 “That’s  _ not _ flirty chit chat?” Sly smirks, but does as she asks, removing his gloves and stuffing them in his jacket pocket. Before he goes to passenger section to sit at the miniature turret, he turns and exhales, glancing back at Carmelita.

 “I’m glad you’re here with me,” he tells her.

She doesn’t reply, but she gazes at him, a softness to her lips. And then she nods, and the moment is gone. He belts himself in, and takes the gun in hand, staring down the sights.

 Carmelita flies the helicopter up, away from the blimp a little, and takes out a microphone, speaking right into it.

 “ _ Neyla Khatri, _ ” Carmelita says clearly, with relish, her voice booming and echoing across the sky.  _ “Come out with your wings up.” _

__ There’s nothing, for a couple of seconds, and then Clock-La rises up from the clouds below, lazily flapping a good distance away.

 “If it isn’t Old Ironsides,” the owl cackles. “And Sly Cooper. What a surprise.”

 Carmelita ignores her. “ _ You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of- _ ”

 Clock-La swoops in, coming right in front of them. Her head is almost bigger than the body of the chopper.

 “ _ La madre que te parió _ ,” Carmelita spits, jerking the helicopter back just as the owl snaps at them, scratching along Carmelita’s door. Even as Carmelita rights the chopper, she continues, starting over.

 “ _ You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law _ -”

 “Oh, dearest Sly,” Clock-La chuckles, coming along the side of the chopper, her huge eye staring Sly in the face. “What a wicked web we wove! How often did you lay awake at night, thinking of me, of  _ us?” _

__ “ _ -You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you- _ ”

 “I know you, Sly Cooper. I know your foolish little heart, your quaint notions of honor. Do you truly believe the woman sitting in that cockpit loves you? That she could  _ ever _ love you? You are nothing more than a challenge, a blemish on her pristine record-” Clock-La laughs, a terrible discordant sound. “Well,  _ previously _ pristine, thanks to me...”

Sly glances up at Carmelita, and can see her fingers are white knuckled on the joystick, but she powers on, steadfastly not looking back at Sly. “ _ Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me? _ ”

 Clock-La rears back up in front of them. Her wings overshadow the entire chopper, blocking the moon. Sly’s fingers tighten around his own controls, ready to shoot at the right moment.

 “Oh, I understand my rights, Carmelita,” Clock-La says, a sneer in that vouce, those golden eyes burning an ugly gold. “And I’ll speak with you.”

 “ _ If you come quietly,”  _ Carmelita says clearly, staring at her through the windscreen,  _ “It will be easier for you. This doesn’t have to escalate into a fight.” _

__ Clock-La impassively gazes down at her. “Oh, but Carmelita, I can see even now how badly you want to fight me. I can see it written on every line of your body.”

 “ _ This is your final warning,”  _ Carmelita reiterates, chin jutting out.

 “I can see how badly you want to go against your precious rules,” Clock-La continues. “How often have  _ you _ laid there at night thinking, about Sly Cooper, Carmelita? How often have you considered breaking the law you could touch the  _ criminal _ next to you?”

  At this, Carmelita finally cracks, baring her fangs. Sly snarls up at the terrifying, monstrous bird in front of them, finger poised on the joystick button , waiting, waiting, as those wings stretch ever further upwards.

 “Would it be worth it, Carmelita?” Clock-La continues with sadistic pleasure. “Your record is ruined forever. You can finally stop pretending you’re above everyone and just let Sly Cooper  _ fuck _ you, just like every officer in Interpol knows you’ve _ always _ wanted-”

 Carmelita lets out a howl of anger, and the main joint of Clock-La’s wing passes right in front of his gun, and Sly fires, emptying armor piercing bullet after armor piercing bullet into the exposed joint.

 Clock-La screams. He feels one of his eardrums burst in a sharp lance of pain; one of the windows on the chopper cracks.

 “ _ That’ll show her,” _ Carmelita snarls, taking the chopper up as Clock-La reels away, one of her wings juddering. She screams again, but this time, a savage beam of energy shoots out of her eyes, barely avoiding hitting them.

 Carmelita is cursing nonstop.

_ “I’m going back in, keep shooting,”  _ she yells, and Sly lurches in his seat as she circles around, the chopper jerking as she steers them last minute out of several more beams of energy.

 Sly aims carefully, looking down the sights. Carmelita steers them in closer, closer, and he aims at that golden eye, and pulls the trigger.

 Luck hasn’t been with Sly recently, but today, it is; a one in a million shot. The bullet explodes through Clock-La’s eyes and lodges in her eye socket, showering Sly with shards of yellow stained glass that cuts through his fingers and along his cheek. 

_ “Nice shot,” _ Carmelita cheers savagely, snapping them back out of reach of Clock-La as she screams again, trying to claw at them with her talons. Her wing is getting limper and limper, and stares at them with unbridled rage, gathering herself for another attack.

  “Can you get us back alongside that wing?” Sly asks Carmelita, unable to get a clear shot.

  “ _ On it,” _ she says, circling around. Clock-La watches them warily, screeching at them, try to bat at them with the broken wing,  shooting at them with the single eye she has left. But that energy beam is starting to falter, thin out.

 “ _ Sly, _ ” Bentley says, stirring to life in the comm link. “ _ I’m monitoring Neyla’s energy levels, and she’s on her last legs- her power is going to run out any moment now!” _

__ “Good,” Sly mutters, and as Clock-La’s broken wing pumps up once more, struggling to lift, he pours bullet after bullet into the joint, and the wing detaches entirely, spiralling down into the ocean below.

 Unable to hold herself up, Clock-La screams in fury, and falls; but before she can fall out of reach, that single eye lights up for a final time, a final burst of power, and cuts the blimp array in half, right through the main fans and several of the hot air balloons keeping it from falling entirely.

 All hell breaks loose.

_ “Sly!” _ Bentley cries, as several parts of the blimp explode in balls of fire and smoke. Sly cries out in wordless fear, watching as the storage unit falls through the clouds.

_ “Bentley! Murray!” _ he screams. 

 “ _ I can’t get any closer,”  _ Carmelita says, sounding scared. “ _ If we got hit by any of that debris, we’ll go down too-” _

_  “My brothers are in there _ ,” he howls, tears leaking from his eyes.

 Carmelita doesn’t say anything for a few precious seconds, and then the chopper goes into a steep dive through the clouds.

 The pieces of the the airship array spiral down towards the ocean, smoke streaming upwards, burning, burning,  _ burning,  _ moonlight glinting off of everything. Clock-La falls as well, strips of metal tearing away from where the wind peels at the broken joint. The coast is nearby, but where are Bentley and Murray?

 Sly searches for something, anything, some hint that Bentley’s done it again-

 “ _ Sly, look!”  _ Carmelita cries.

 And he sees them, sees his brothers, parachutes unfurled and magnificent as they slowly drift to the ground. Several other parachutes have opened up as well for the guards who made it, but these parachutes are white, not red- older parachutes, spares, and Sly sobs in relief as Bentley and Murray crackle in his unburst ear.

 “ _ Sly,”  _ Murray says, “ _ We’re okay, did you take her down?” _

_  “I think we’re off the coast of Marais du Cotentin et du Bessin Natural Regional Park,”  _ Bentley adds. “ _ Judging from our trajectory, we’ll land on the beach. Tell Carmelita she needs to alert the Coast Guard, though, as the guards will likely land in the sea a little further out.” _

_  “ _ Oh thank god,” Sly says. “Thank god you two are okay.”

 “ _ Please, have some faith in us,” _ Bentley says.  _ “We’ll see you down there.”  _

__ Sly relays all of this to Carmelita, who radios the Coast Guard. They follow the progress of the parachutes long after the blimp’s parts have crashed into the ocean, the national park, making sure they aren’t caught by any wind.

 “ _ Sly,” _ Murray says, “Clock-La _ \- she landed a little further up from where we’re going to land, can you see her?” _

__ Sly carefully takes out his binocucom and peers through it.

 Clock-La lies broken on the beach, the tide crashing against her side, relatively intact but not moving.

 “I see her,” he replies. Carmelita brings them in, searching for a safe spot to land on the beach. The chopper touches down gently, and they both get out unsteadily, watching as Bentley and Murray, still a good fifty feet up in the sky, come ever closer.

 Sly turns to Carmelita, seeing how her eyes reflect the moonlight, how the sea breeze tousles her hair. She’s staring out at Clock-La, who lays a hundred feet away, examining the damage, the scope of everything, satisfied, tired.

 Sly feels his chest swell like the tide before them.

 “Carmelita,” he begins to say. She turns to him, looking up at him, her eyes like stars, and she cuts him off not with words, but with a simple touch. Her fingers interlace with his, like molten metal to his skin, scorching his body and soul, and she  _ looks _ at him, looks at him like she did that night at Rajan’s ball, looks at him like he always imagined she would, like it’s just them, alongside a crackling fire, and how can he ever find the words to say what he feels, right here, right now?

 “Sly!” 

 He turns just in time to see Murray barrel into him, lifting him up in a hug as he joyously cheers. Sly laughs, hugging Murray tightly. 

 “I’d like a hug too, if possible,” Bentley interjects, and Murray puts Sly down, then sweeps Carmelita up in an embrace. While Sly and Bentley give each other a quick hug, Sly peeks at Carmelita, who looks extremely nonplussed.

 “I’m so glad you’re back, Inspector” Murray says. “Bentley told me Interpol cleared your name!”

 “I’m. Uh,” Carmelita manages, as Murray squeezes her and puts her back down.

She clears her throat, turning to Bentley, proffering her hand.

 “Thank you,” she says gruffly. “For everything.”

 Bentley smiles up at her equally as gruffly, and shakes her hand. “My pleasure, Inspector.”

 “We did it,” Sly breathes, pulling off his goggles and letting them fall to the ground. The air is cool on his face. “We really did it.”

 “It’s an emotional moment,” Bentley sniffs, and Murray roars in delight.

 But it isn’t over, of course. They all look over at the same time, as Clock-La’s metal joints flex weakly, the sound of metal whining against metal cutting through their celebration.

 “Quickly,” Carmelita snarls, pulling out her shock pistol and running up to the the broken bird. The three of them follow suit.

 Clock-La is twitching, making strange noises. As they come up close to her, her single eye flies open. They all flinch, but only smoke wisps out; it’s cracked, refracting a million different moons. 

 “Insects,” the huge owl warbles accusingly, its beak gnashing up and down slowly, wobbling. 

 “How is she even moving?” Carmelita says in frustration. “How is she  _ conscious?” _

__ “Before she merged with the Clockwerk frame,” Bentley says slowly, “She mentioned a… a “Hate Chip”, some mixture of magic and science. It must be keeping her going, even without any energy to move.”

 As they watch, the joints on her jaw break and her mouth crashes shut.

 Carmelita makes a noise of frustration. “What happens if we remove the chip?”

 Bentley shakes his head. “This is beyond me, Inspector. I suspect… once the chip is removed and destroyed, Neyla and the Parts will truly die. But we can’t recover her mind now, and her original body is long gone.”

 Carmelita is silent for a while, watching that flickering golden eye. And then she exhales.

 “The Clockwerk Parts can no longer be allowed to exist. This was her choice,” she says coldly. “I gave her the option to come peacefully. Do what you must.”

 Bentley nods. “Murray, you’ll need to wrench open her mouth for me. The chip is at the very back of her mouth in a very small gap.”

 “No problem,” Murray says, and the two of them cautiously approach her. When she doesn’t move, Murray strains, pulling her mouth open once more. He holds it there, as Bentley crawls into her mouth, searching for the chip.

 Something’s wrong though. Clock-La’s head is heavy, but there’s something more to it- as that golden eye swivels to him, it’s suddenly much harder to hold the head up. It’s mesmerising, somehow, stealing his focus, like the Contessa’s machines, but he hasn’t eaten any spice in a long time… He’s so tired… 

 “Bentley,” Murray chokes out. 

 “Almost done,” Bentley replies, a little muffled. 

 Murray’s arms are beginning to tremble, and he can’t move his tongue, he can’t warn his friend. He’s unable to look away from that eye, patterns playing inside of it.

 Bentley makes a sound of triumph, and there’s a sharp buzzing noise. The light in the eye is gone, but Murray’s arms are already buckling, his fingers slipping, as Bentley crawls out of the mouth.

 The four of them will remember this moment for the rest of their lives, as in her final moment, Clock-La brings her jaw upon Bentley’s middle, snapping his spine.

 Bentley grunts, blood splattering from his mouth onto the ground in front of him.

 Sly can’t even move, freezing in place. Carmelita, on the radio to the Coast Guard, doesn’t even realise anything is wrong until she sees him so still, sees him reach out to her, his hand fisting in the sleeve of her jacket.

 Murray, who shakes the remnant of hypnosis that Clock-La had laid on him, comes back to full consciousness and sees Bentley laying there, trapped and trembling.

 “Bentley?” He says, in a tiny voice, reaching out with a shaking hand.

 “I- I can’t feel my legs,” Bentley says faintly, and Murray begins panicking. Tears began to leak from his eyes as Sly finds his voice and howls, rushing to them. The two of them hoist Clock-La’s mouth back open, and Sly painstakingly, tenderly, pulls Bentley out.

 “ _ Carmelita!” _ he screams.

 Carmelita is already calling for emergency medical assistance, shouting down the phone, sprinting to them.

 “Don’t touch him,” she says roughly, kneeling down next to Bentle. Murray’s hand wraps around Sly’s upper arm, gripping him so hard that for weeks later, Sly will have bruises. “Don’t, his spine- don’t touch him- Bentley, can you hear me? Are you in any pain?” 

 “Nothing,” Bentley wheezes. “I’m likely going into shock. Tell the paramedics it was the vertebrae above my coccyx, and that the nerves are likely damaged beyond repair with several internal bleeding.” Murray begins to sob, and Bentley looks up at him with a reassuring smile. “I’m not going to die, guys.” And then, he slowly, slowly, opens his hand and proffering it to Sly. “Destroy it,” he says, closing his eyes.

 The Hate Chip sits in Bentley’s open hand. Sly’s crying silently, but he kneels down and carefully takes the little piece of technology that Bentley sacrificed his legs for.

 It’s so… innocuous. That this little chip, this hand sized, flat little piece of metal destroyed his family, his life,  _ Bentley’s _ life.. it’s absurd. All because of a single person’s jealousy, and bitterness, and  _ hatred _ .

 Sly expects anger, bitter satisfaction, but all he feels is a bone deep sadness. The moonlight sparkles off the steel chip in his hand, and Sly is so, so tired. He glances back at Clock-La- at  _ Neyla _ , who used her last moment of consciousness to ruin someone’s life. The parts are scattered, but still intact, as if another person with the right anger, the right mind, could piece them back together and start the whole cycle over again.

 Sly’s glances drops back down to his hand, to that little chip. He sticks his cane in the sand, and takes the chip in both hands, and applies pressure to it.

 It snaps in two, and he’s crying more now, two isn’t enough, he snaps it into fourths, into  _ eighths _ , cutting his fingers as he tears out screws and wires, his blood splattering onto the sand.

 It’s over. It’s finally over.

 “Sly,” Carmelita says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Look.”

 He drags his eyes up, past Bentley’s broken body, to the Parts.

 As he watches, that shining metal blackens, withers, rust growing upwards like grass, sprouting and blemishing, and then, abruptly, the Parts turn into dust that blows away in the fresh ocean breeze, out to sea.

 “He’s finally gone,” Sly says to her. “He’ll never hurt another member of my family again.”

 Carmelita’s hand tightens on his shoulder.

 Police and medics pour onto the beach. Several paramedics gently move a sobbing Murray out of the way so they can lift Bentley onto a stretcher. Murray follows them to the ambulance where they begin taking his vitals.

 Carmelita barks orders left and right; medics bandage Sly’s fingers, but he feels it as if in a dream. 

 Finally, of course, Carmelita stands in front of him, looking at him without expression.

 He stands up. 

 “I have orders to take you and your gang via chopper straight to Interpol headquarters,” she informs him.

 His hands tighten around his cane, and he sees how her hand rests on the butt of her gun. They both look at each-other, waiting for the other to make a move.

 “I surrender,” he says instead, mustering a cool voice, watching Carmelita’s eyes widen. “But on the condition that Murray and Bentley are granted amnesty. I was the mastermind of the gang. They were just my underlings.”

 Carmelita looks at him long and hard. She knows, of course, that this isn’t true, but he also knows that she can’t disprove it, either. 

 “After all,” he adds, “it’s called the Cooper Gang for a reason, you know.”

 Her mouth twists into a grimace that could almost be called a smile.

 “Murray and Bentley are going to go to the hospital under guard while they heal,” she tells him. “For now, that’s all I can promise. But come with me, and we can arrange something more permanent.”

 He holds out his wrists, and she takes his cane, and finally, for the first time, she snaps a pair of cuffs around his wrists.

But her fingers linger, so quickly, on his hands, and she glances at him with a shy sort of sorrow.

“Senior Constable Gregor is going to pilot the chopper,” she says. “I suggest you say goodbye to your friends now while I organise some final... things. Don’t do anything foolish, like run. You won’t make it ten feet before every officer in the area is on you.”

 He heeds her suggestion, slowly making his way to the ambulance before it leaves. But Murray isn’t there; just Bentley, laying there on the stretcher, watching Sly approach. Something’s in his other hand, but Sly can’t see what it is.

 “They’re flying me to Interpol headquarters,” Sly says quietly but meaningfully. “I won’t be seeing you guys for a pretty long time.”

 Bentley smiles weakly. “We won the battle, but lost the war.”

 Sly exhales in a short bark of laughter.  “Yeah. I guess so.”

 “We’ll see you around, I’m sure.” Bentley manages. Murray joins them, and Bentley grins up at them.

 “I did what you asked,” Murray says to Bentley.

 “Good,” Bentley nods. 

 “Sly,” Carmelita calls. “Time to go.”  

 “I’ll see you around,” Sly says to the both of them, and then he has to leave them. Leave them both broken in different ways. As he walks away, he sees something that disproves his thought that things couldn’t possibly get worse.

 He sees Murray take off his goggles, his scarf, and leave them on the beach. He watches Murray take Bentley’s helmet off at the turtle’s request, watches that gear fall to the sand, as Murray gets in the ambulance with Bentley and it pulls away, lights flashing, siren howling. 

 Sly looks away, focusing on the chopper. The blades are whirring to life, and Carmelita pushes his head down, helping him get up. She closes the sides, and straps him in, knocking on the window to signal the pilot.

 And then, they fly up, up and away, away from his friends, into the night sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was... intense to write. i only changed a few things, and i hope it fit, and didn't seem out of place. I didn't want to linger too much on the engine jobs, because i mean... this section is rushed in game. they don't have a lot of time, they're panicking, etc.  
> the epilogue should be up within the next couple of days. i hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as i enjoyed writing it!!!!!!!!!! 
> 
>  
> 
> i don't have much more to say about this, besides.... well.... the epilogue will finally give carmelita and sly a Lil Bit More.......... (of what, who knows?)


	17. coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> coda; a concluding musical section, formally distinct from the main piece, 
> 
> or;
> 
> sly and carmelita, two ships passing by in the ocean, finally intersect

_ It’s a beautiful night _ , Sly thinks inanely to himself as he gazes out the window at the sea, at France passing slowly below him. From up here, he can almost pretend that his friends aren’t broken, that he isn’t about to finally be put away for good.

 The ocean twinkles below him, the clouds drift by, and Sly finds himself oddly at peace. 

“We’ll be to Paris in an hour, maximum,” Carmelita says, watching him from her seat. 

 Sly nods, not looking away from the window. Only a couple of days ago, he would have killed to have an hour with Carmelita, but now that he’s here, well. He doesn’t know what to say. The paraglider juts uncomfortably against his back, and the cuffs are tight on his wrists. Carmelita’s eyes bore into him, and he turns to face her.

 Her hair is sticking up from the sea breeze, another couple of centimetres longer than last time. It looks cute, suiting her heart shaped face, and Sly feels a little bit of the tension drain from his shoulders. If he’s going to jail, he might as well enjoy the time he has left with her, right?

 So he meets her gaze solidly, trying to figure out what she’s thinking. He remembers her fingers entwined between his, and wishes they were sitting closer.

 A good thirty minutes passes of the two of them just staring at eachother, and then, surprisingly, it’s Carmelita who breaks the silence.

“In India,” she says. “How did you get the wings out of the ballroom?”

Sly blinks. And then he laughs. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“You can’t say that then expect me not to be curious,” Carmelita says in exasperation, and Sly… relaxes.

 “Okay, well,” Sly starts, and tells her all about it: about stealing the jewels from the elephants, distracting the crowd as they danced (they both look away when Sly skips over that bit). When he comes to Murray being lowered down from the ceiling with a hacksaw, Carmelita starts laughing in disbelief.

 “It’s true,” he protests. 

 “Incredible,” she says, grinning. “I’d be mad if I wasn’t so amused.”

 “That’s nothing compared to what we found up in Jean-Bison’s second logging camp,” Sly tells her with relish.

 Her nose wrinkles. “What?”

 “A prehistoric bear,” Sly says solemnly. “On four legs and everything.”

 “Liar,” she says flatly. “That’s-”

 “Impossible? Sly asks. “And yet, Murray still wanted to punch it.”

 Carmelita shakes her head. “I still don’t believe you.”

 “That Murray didn’t want to punch it?”

 “No-” she starts laughing again. “The bear! I don’t believe the bear!”

 But she can barely get the words out, giggling, and Sly watches her fondly.

 “It’s never boring with you three, is it,” she says eventually, wiping tears from the corner of her eyes. 

 “It’s never boring with you either,” he says softly, and she looks up at him, her laughter fading.

 “What you said, in Canada-” she says, and he smiles at her.

 “I meant it,” he tells her. “There would be no point, without you.”

 “Sly,” Carmelita says, then stops. She clenches her hands, and then, seemingly making some internal decision, decisively gets up and sits next to him. He starts in surprise, as her leg presses up against his, warm and electric. Blood rushes to his face, and he looks at her dumbly. 

 Up close, he can see a few little scars in her fur, that her snout was broken once, a tiny bit crooked, the flecks of gold in her irises. 

 Carmelita opens her mouth, then closes it again. She’s so close, so clearly at war with herself.

 “When did you learn to dance?” Sly blurts, his voice rough, a paltry attempt to try and ground her.

 Carmelita is taken aback, but it does its job; she stops looking so nervous. “There was a dance school, just near the grounds when I was training to be a cop,” she says slowly. Sly watches her relax, sinking into memory. “I thought it would be a good way to boost my fitness a little. I just did contemporary dance first, but one day they had a free tango lesson…”

“Did you have a regular partner?”

She laughs. “Yes. A Norwegian cat, named Arvid. We used to have great fun. He had a lovely husband. I often used to get dinner with them after class.” She smiles at him. “What about you?

Sly grins, shifting. His leg presses against hers a little more, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Her elbow rests on the back of the seat, her face resting against her hand as she turns to him.

 “At first, it was just because we wanted to infiltrate a high society event in Berlin,” Sly admits. “I started taking classes several months beforehand.”

 “I don’t remember this heist,” she says suspiciously.

 “We never went through with it,” Sly smiles. “Someone got there before us. But the damage was done, and I had fallen in love with dancing. I feel rusty, though, I barely dance anymore.”

 “You gave me the best dance I ever had,” Carmelita says quietly.

 Their eyes meet, but Carmelita’s gaze skitters away.

 “I like the music, as well,” Sly tries. “Though I like most music, to be honest.”

 Carmelita huffs. “I like classical music, and traditional blues music. And that’s about it.”

 “You’re a music snob!” Sly exclaims, laughing.

 Carmelita raises a brow at him. “I have good taste,” she corrects him.

 Sly keeps laughing, and she smacks his leg.

 “And what about you?” she says disbelievingly. “No-one “likes most music”, you  _ have  _ to have a preference.”

 “Hmm,” Sly says. “If I had to pick a single genre… maybe jazz? Classic thief music. The smooth, sultry stuff in particular.”

 “And you called me a music snob,” she says in mock outrage. He chuckles. 

 “Smooth jazz,” Carmelita repeats. “Of course. What’s your favourite song, then?”

 Sly’s lip quirks. “You’ll laugh at me again..”

 “Okay, well, my favourite song is  _ No Sunshine _ by Bill Withers.”

 “The duck?” Sly asks. Carmelita nods. “Okay, well since we’re confessing secrets.  _ Me and Mrs Jones _ , by, um. The walrus, I always forget his name. Billy Paul-”

 Carmelita starts humming the song, and he stops, listening to her voice as she sings a few of the words.

 And Sly is so, so painfully in love.

 “So you’re a secret romantic,” Carmelita says mischievously.

 “I thought you would have figured that out by now,” he breathes, and she blushes at the tips of her ears.

 And there’s that charge between them again, impossible to ignore. Surely, Sly thinks desperately, he isn’t imagining it? Where her leg touches his, it feels like fire, borderline painful, and yet he holds still, patient. 

 “Sly,” she says, and her eyes dart to his mouth, back to him. 

 He’s trembling.

 “Yes, Carmelita?” he replies. His mouth is so dry, he’s _parched_. 

 He stole a kiss from her once in Russia, on that bridge, immature and quick; she had been so shocked that she hadn’t pulled away, but she hadn’t returned it, either. He’s always wondered about that kiss, about how it might have been if she hadn’t been surprised. In his old fantasies, Carmelita is a ferocious, passionate lover, dominating, relentless, but now that he knows her better, that she can be gentle, can be thoughtful and slow, he wonders how true that was.

 He wants to know so,  _ so _ badly.

 She isn’t saying anything, her head still leaning on her hand, but she’s moved in closer, her other hand resting on her thigh, fingers brushing his leg. Sly wishes that he could rip the cuffs off, touch her. It’s torture.

 But Sly takes a chance, and with his index finger, he slowly, cautiously, runs it along the back of her hand. She gazes at him steadily, her lips parting slightly.

 She doesn’t pull away.

 Her fur is soft, and he luxuriates in the intimacy she’s allowing him, revelling in the simple sweeping sensation of touching her hand. He doesn’t dare speak, and she sighs gently as he runs his finger along the inside of her wrist, and he feels the air gently against his cheek.

Sly has never been so turned on in his life. He thought their tango was charged, but this, this quiet moment- it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever had the pleasure to experience. He can feel her pulse beneath his finger, smell the faint sweetness of her perfume, like apricots and hazelnuts. 

 Carmelita looks at him with heavy lidded eyes, and she wets her mouth with the tip of her tongue. Still, he doesn’t move any further, waiting, waiting, about to explode, returning his gaze to her wrist. She’s leaning in even closer, shivering.

_ Please _ , Sly begs her, the muscles in his legs twitching with the effort of staying still.

 Ten minutes pass like this, ten agonising minutes, their faces so close now that her nose nearly brushes his. Sly finally gets the courage to look up at her again, at how she’s staring at his mouth, moving closer so slowly he wonders if she really realises.

 And then, finally, Carmelita kisses him.

 It’s slow, hesitant, sweeter than he ever could have thought and Sly groans into her mouth, straining his cuffs as her hand rests on his chest, her other hand coming up to cup his cheek. The kiss isn’t like fire, it’s like  _ lava _ , slow, molten, changing the very foundations of him. He runs his tongue along her bottom lip and now she’s the one moaning, hand fisting in his jacket. He places his hand on the top of her thigh, his index finger slipping along the inside of her leg, and groans again as she thrusts just the  _ tiniest _ bit towards him. He breaks the kiss to press his lips against her neck, her collarbone, below her ear.

 “ _ Carmelita,” _ he murmurs fervently, over and over again, between every glorious little kiss, and he bites her earlobe gently, feeling her shudder against him. He wants to rip her clothes off, wants to make love to her here and now on the floor of the chopper.

 “Sly,” Carmelita moans, and somehow, that breaks the spell, for her, hearing herself moan his name. She claps her hand over her mouth and pulls away, staring at him as they both pant.

 Sly’s heart sinks, as she shakes her head, shame creeping over her face. 

 “We can’t- I can’t-” she looks pale, and Sly does nothing, afraid to make her more upset. She gets up abruptly, and returns to the seat across from him. “We can’t do this,” she breathes to herself. “I’m such a fool, Neyla was right-”

 Sly cuts her off, refusing to let  _ Neyla _ and her foul words make this worse. “She’s wrong,” he tells her quietly. “At first, it was just the thrill of you, just the attraction. But I wasn’t lying, when I told you that the day you give up your badge is the day I give up my cane. I’ve been in love with you for a long time, Carmelita.”

 This seems to quell her a little. She stares at him, at his exposed heart, and turns away.

 “We should have arrived by now,” she mumbles, rapping on the door to the cockpit. No-one answers, and she frowns, knocking again. 

 Sly’s heart is in his stomach, but he suspects he knows what’s waiting behind that door, so he moves quickly, reaching across to his cane and flipping it as Carmelita struggles with the door, using the pointy end to pick the lock of the cuffs. 

 “What’s going on in there?” she shouts, hip and shouldering the door. Sly quickly unbuckles his seatbelt, checking his paraglider is securely strapped to him. Carmelita shoves the door a second time with all her strength, and it buckles inwards, and they both see just what it is that Bentley asked Murray to do. 

 The cockpit is empty, Murray’s binocucom plugged into the control panel, and Sly quickly stands up, slides open the side door. The cool air whistles into the chopper, and Carmelita turns to look at him.

 Their eyes meet once more, for a final time, and she looks betrayed.

 “You planned this,” she accuses, fumbling for his gun. “You- you  _ used _ me-”

 “I never used you,” Sly says quietly, as she holds her shock pistol up. “But I know when I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

 “You  _ lied, _ ” Carmelita says,  _ begs _ , and Sly shakes his head.

 “Every word was the truth,” he tells her with earnest sadness. “I’m sorry, Carmelita, but I love you.”

 And before she can shoot him, before she can find her voice, before Sly can surrender and rush forward and take her in his arms, he jumps, and he falls.

 The wind embraces him as the paraglider opens, cool across his warm face and heavy heart. He turns to look at her, as her face grows smaller and smaller, unreadable.

 And then, distantly, he hears her voice, her tone inscrutable. It’s not a threat, or a promise, but a statement of fact, like rain falls from the sky, like the tide crashes onto the beach.

 “I’ll find you, Cooper.”

 Perhaps there’s hope yet, Sly thinks, as he drifts across France on the night air.

 “I look forward to it,” he calls back, and sees, just  _ barely _ , the hint of a smile on her face.

 And he does, truly, already missing her face, her touch. Perhaps they can somehow, still work this out yet.

 One step at a time, Sly thinks, as he lands and stumbles, checking the coordinates and plan Bentley has sent to his binocucom. He needs to sneak into Bentley’s hospital to touch base with them, and then once Bentley recuperates, they need to find the van- but he’s getting ahead of himself.

 Sly zips his jacket up against the evening breeze, and starts to jog down the road, following the binocucom directions. His heart may be heavy, but his shoulders are light. His future- his friends’ futures may be dark and uncertain but night can’t last forever; the morning sun, eventually, has to rise.

 And in the meantime, well. He can’t keep his brothers waiting.

 He has a train to catch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so!!!!!!! here we are!!!!!!!! the end!!!!!! long notes ahead!
> 
> i think this was really the toughest chapter to write, and i hope i gave a satisfying ending to it that didn't feel like the end, for them. but i didn't want a happy end either; i wanted to feel (and this sounds very cliched) like a beginning. i wanted something short, and shiny, and satisfying in the way an entree is satisfying after waiting a long time for your food; it satiates you, but you want more.
> 
> i almost (ALMOST!!!!!) didn't have them kiss. it was a very close thing. but yknow what!!!! i've been writing the UST between these two for over a year now and it felt like the story had earnt it, if only for a short moment. I hope i might it sexy/adult without being over the top, and that it didn't feel forced, and didn't go on too long. 
> 
> i will not be writing an adaption of sly 1, or of sly 3 (and definitely not of thieves in time lmao), as i feel that sly 2 was really the strongest game in terms of writing; it builds on the solid base that sly 1 set, and that sly 3, though wonderful, never captured me the same way that sly 2 did. maybe i'll revisit this series (both my fic and the Sly series itself) in a form of some oneshots, but it won't be for a while. i'm going to focus on finishing my other fic i currently have running, titled "slowly, slowly", which is for the Artemis Fowl book series, focusing on Artemis and Holly, if any of you are familiar with the series and interested in the pairing. unlike this fic, it is pure, slowburn romance nonsense following very little plot, and is completely self indulgent, if that's your sort of thing!
> 
> this fic for me was inspired when i sat down to play sly 2 after a long time of not thinking about it; i found this funny, clever, warm story, and as an adult who takes great pleasure in building plot and fleshing characters, i wondered how sly would really be, after fighting the enemy who destroyed his life. i always felt that bentley was actually the strongest character; that murray was under developed, and sly too flat, too unceasingly confident and relaxed; that carmelita deserved more than being a one dimension love interest, and that neyla could have been even more wicked. playing the game, i could see all the seeds that had grown, but not as high as they could have, and i sat down at my computer that night and wrote the first chapter, beginning at the very start of the game where they break into the museum. I would go back later and add Sly's nightmare though, and that set the tone for me, for the rest of the story; sly's PTSD, bentley's problem with jealousy, murray's lack of confidence. when i wrote the dance scene for carmelita, i remember reading what i had written, and being full of enthusiasm for the story i had begun to weave alongside canon; that was, for me, when carmelita became a lot more interesting, if only because of the situation sly had put her in. out of all the characters, if i write some stand alone stories, it is carmelita i will be revisiting first. it was very hard to not write a proper section from her point of view, and i hope i wove the idea of her past well enough without spelling it all out; her mother's sordid addiction to drugs that she passed on to her daughter in the womb, and towards the end, her struggle with her own morality. if i were to change anything, i'd perhaps give neyla a more concrete motivation, but sometimes, i feel a lust for power is enough; after all, neyla was just a repeat of clockwerk, a symbol of the menace chasing sly's family. she was a villain, but an unwitting villain to her own aspirations.
> 
> to conclude (and thankyou for sticking with me for this long!) I feel like i've accomplished what I set out to do; adapted one of my absolute favourite games in the world into a fanfic that not only pays tribute to its wonderful ideas, but perhaps, gives them the love and extra touch some of them needed. thank you so much for joining me. thank you so much for your patience, and thank you for your endlessly wonderful words and support.
> 
> thankyou,
> 
> elinadsy


End file.
